


Everything In Transit

by remedialpotions



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Hogwarts Eighth Year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2018-12-17 20:45:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 82,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11859348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remedialpotions/pseuds/remedialpotions
Summary: Hermione is returning to Hogwarts as Head Girl, and Ron, due to circumstances currently out of his control, has to go with her if he ever hopes to become an Auror... but they're about to learn that going back is more difficult than they imagined. Rated E for chapters 4 onward. COMPLETE.





	1. September 1st

**Author's Note:**

> So, I always thought that I couldn't picture a world in which Ron goes back to Hogwarts after the Battle... but then, as I tend to do, I started to wonder if there would ever be a reason that he HAD to. And the this happened. So it's a bit AU, but compliant with the canon of the seven books. I hope you like it, hearing your feedback would mean the world to me!
> 
> Also, I must give credit to Jack's Mannequin for inspiring the title.
> 
> And disclaimer, as always: I don't own Ron or Hermione or anyone or anything else that you might recognize here. I'm not JK Rowling.

~~~~“So I'll see you at the train station,” Hermione whispered, tying her hair into a messy knot at the back of her head. Ron, lounging comfortably in his bed, his bare shoulders poking out above the navy blue duvet, looked like he had no intention of moving for several days. “You and Harry will be there at half ten, right?”

“Yeah,” replied Ron, sitting up a bit and pulling her by the waist onto the bed beside him. “Course, you know my track record with being on time to King’s Cross isn't great-”

“But you can't miss the train, that's why I'm telling you half-ten, in the hopes that you’ll at least make it by five til.”

“Well, now that I know that…” Ron grinned and wrapped his hands around hers, using them to bring her in for a light kiss. “Even if we did miss the train, we could just Apparate to Hogsmeade. Save us a lot of time, actually-”

“It's our last start-of-term train ride to Hogwarts,” Hermione reminded him. “You can't miss it.” She glanced down at the watch around his wrist. “And I really have to go.”

Ron said nothing, instead laying a slow, soft kiss on her lips. “You know,” he murmured into her mouth, dropping tiny kisses along her upper lip, “you wouldn't have to sneak around all the time if you'd just move in here with me and Harry.”

“And you know I can't do that, my parents…” Hermione caught his lips fully with hers. “Would never let me…”

Arms securing around her waist, Ron fell back on the bed, drawing her on top of him as his lips landed on her neck. “Stay a while,” he suggested. “It's still early…” His hand slid up the back of her shirt. “We could… y’know…”

“What?” Hermione said, affecting innocence. “Play chess? Knit jumpers?”

Ron chuckled against her neck and flipped them over, making the ancient bedsprings groan in protest. His lips peppered a trail of kisses up her jaw.

“I think you know I don't want to play chess.” His tongue curled around her earlobe.

“The knitting, then?”

“Not exactly.”

As he began to suck on the sensitive skin just below her ear, Hermione let out a long sigh of pleasure. If she was honest with herself, she found lounging around in bed with Ron - shirtless Ron, no less - to be a much preferable option to Apparating home before her parents awoke. If they caught her, and thus cottoned on to the fact that this has become a regular occurrence all summer, that most weekend nights had been spent between these sheets in various states of undress, she hated to consider what would come next. That they had been accepting of her return to Hogwarts was already akin to a miracle.

“I have to go,” Hermione repeated ruefully. “I'll see you at the station in a few hours.”

“Yeah, okay.” Ron planted a kiss on her cheek as she crawled away from him and sat up. “I love you.” His features seemed to soften as he spoke.

“I love you too.” Their lips met again, quickly, and then Hermione stood, flashing Ron one last smile as she crept out of his room.

Why she was trying to be stealthy about it, she really didn't know; the only other person living here was Harry and he was certainly aware of how often she spent the night. Still, it was just past five in the morning, and it wouldn't do to go barreling down the stairs and causing a ruckus. Soon she reached the front step of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place and turned determinedly on the spot. One instant of suffocation and darkness later, she stood in her childhood bedroom.

That her parents’ home in London had gone virtually untouched in their absence had been of little comfort to Hermione. She had half-expected to come back to a wreck, to a demolished, overturned ruin, to some sign or hint or faintest whisper that the Death Eaters had come calling for her parents, but there was nothing. There were no signs that that the place had seen any magic since Hermione had modified her parents’ memories and sent them away to Australia. And as she looked around the room, just as she'd left it all those months ago, the family pictures restored, the gnawing guilt and doubt crept back into the pit of her stomach.

Times had been desperate, she reminded herself as she knelt before the trunk at the foot of her bed. At the height of the war, people had acted out of fear, doing things they ordinarily wouldn't have dreamed of doing. Harry had split with Ginny to protect her, Muggleborns had gone on the run, Ron had even dressed up the family ghoul in pajamas to pose as him. Everyone was just trying to survive, to protect those they loved.

But those things were different, the little voice in the back of her head remarked as she checked through the stacks of freshly laundered robes. They had known that Voldemort would go after Harry's loved ones and that Harry would have stopped at nothing to save Ginny. They had known that Ron's truancy from Hogwarts would prompt an investigation. But she hadn’t known, not really, not with absolute certainty, that Australia was the only safe place for her only family members. Maybe they could have stayed. Maybe she didn't have to tamper with their lives against their will. Maybe she could have explained beforehand, gotten their permission, helped them understand… but she hadn't. As usual, she'd seen only her way as the right way.

Figuring she may as well keep the charade up properly, Hermione crawled into her twin bed and hugged her pillow to her chest. Her parents had always liked Ron, in a “he's a nice boy with a nice family” sort of way, and they knew she and Ron were officially together now, but Hermione still wanted to keep her private time with him, well, private. She was eighteen, yes, but she didn't want her parents ruminating too long on exactly why she might want to stay the night at his house or just what they'd be doing. They'd already gotten a bit overprotective as it was.

After a quick catnap, Hermione showered and dressed in simple Muggle clothing, something that she could easily change out of on the train. Just as she was using her wand to dry off her hair, there came a soft knock on the other side of her bedroom door before it opened. _Why even knock then?_ thought Hermione in annoyance as her parents appeared in the doorway.

“We’re heading off to work, dear,” said her mum, adjusting a pin keeping her low, elegant bun in place. “You’ll be all right getting yourself to the train station?”

“Yes, mum, I'll be fine,” replied Hermione. She'd gotten herself and Ron all the way to Australia on her own, hadn't she? And then it occurred to her, in another wave of guilt, that they hadn't seen her off at King’s Cross Station since she was twelve years old. She had always been with the Weasleys, always too eager to reunite with her friends to spend the entire summer with her own family.

It was an awkward departure - there were hugs and well-wishes and promises made to write every single day and Hermione did her best to tamp down every unpleasant feeling that threatened to overtake her. She couldn't let herself feel this way about doing what she knew what right for her. She was going to back to Hogwarts; it was where she belonged.

•••

Ron, standing over six feet tall with vibrant red hair, stood out everywhere he went, but Hermione was still quite shocked to see him grinning at her on the other side of the barrier to Platform 9 when she stepped through at exactly half past ten. Beside him stood Harry, whose typically untidy hair looked exceptionally bedraggled.

“You're early!” she exclaimed, dragging her trunk carelessly behind her as she hurried to greet him.

Ron shrugged and dipped his head to peck her cheek. “Always the-”

“Tone of surprise, we get it,” Harry snapped. “Aren’t you adorable. Can we just go find a compartment?”

Without waiting for an answer, he stalked off to the scarlet steam engine and yanked open the door. Hermione hurried after him, leaving Ron to tend to her trunk.

“Where's Ginny?” she asked, hoping this change of topic would spark a shift in mood for him.

“She’ll be here,” said Harry as Ron came clanging up the steps with his and Hermione’s trunks. “She's coming from the Burrow, you know, because she tends to spend the night at her own house.” Opening the door to the first empty compartment he came upon, Harry hoisted his trunk onto the rack above their heads and flung himself into a seat.

“Right,” Hermione said meekly, sitting down across from him. “Sorry.” It felt like an odd, trite thing to say, but how else could she respond?

“It's fine,” he shrugged it off, fixing his eyes resolutely on the scene unfolding outside the window.

“You don't want to wait for her?”

“She knows I don't particularly like standing around on train platforms getting stared at.”

“He's just annoyed,” Ron chimed in as he lifted Hermione's trunk over his head, “because your mum can't charm your bedroom to keep you there at night like mine can do to Ginny.”

Hermione felt her face flush as Ron shoved his trunk further back onto the rack and then joined her on the seat. Harry had never seemed to have a problem when Hermione snuck over at night to see Ron, but what if their privacy charms hadn't held out and he'd overheard something? It had to be a bit awkward, after all these years of friendship, to now play third wheel to them.

“Harry,” Hermione began, unable to help herself, “does it bother you that-”

“Oh, she's here,” Harry remarked, brightening a bit. As he scrambled out of the compartment to fetch her, Ron placed a hand on Hermione's thigh and gave it a light squeeze.

“He's fine,” Ron assured her. “He’s just still annoyed that Kingsley’s bill didn't pass through the Wizengamot.”

“That was over a month ago.”

“I’m still kind of pissed about it too,” Ron admitted, “but he's not allowed to make another attempt at it for three months, so… here we are. Making the best of it.”

Almost immediately following the Battle of Hogwarts, newly appointed Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt had immediately sent several bills through the Wizengamot. One had dismantled the Muggleborn Registration Commission, one had reversed mandatory attendance at Hogwarts, and numerous others had made great strides toward restoring peace in the Wizarding community. One of them, which was of particular interest to Ron and Harry, would have passed a new law allowing wizards and witches who had adequate OWL marks to enter the Auror training program without NEWTs if said witches and wizards had fought the Dark arts under extraordinary circumstances. It would have allowed any student who fought in the battle to join the dreadfully understaffed department, but it had not garnered adequate votes from the Wizengamot and as such, Ron and Harry were, begrudgingly, returning for their NEWT year.

“I'm glad I'm here with you,” Ron added, leaning in to gently kiss her lips.

“So am I.” Since they were alone, she kissed him again. “I can't picture Hogwarts without you.”

With a smile, Ron pressed his lips to hers, a low hum of contentment rolling out of his throat. For a moment, Hermione forgot where they were, forgot that they were on a train that was growing more crowded by the second, with students traipsing by-

“Oi,” came Harry's voice through the compartment as the door slid open. “Don't I see enough of this at home?”

His tone, unlike before, was tinged with mirth as Ginny marched into the compartment and took the seat nearest the window.

“I told you they'd be like this,” she said to Harry, rolling her eyes as he joined her on the bench. “Maybe it's good they didn't get together until this summer, can you imagine dealing with this all last year?”

“As if you lot are any better,” Ron fired back.

The train rumbled to life, its whistle emitting a loud blast. As the three of them bickered, Hermione slipped her fingers into Ron's, linking them together. The mere presence of Ginny had boosted Harry's spirits, as was typical, and as the clock struck eleven and the train rolled out of the station, Hermione allowed herself to feel moderately optimistic about the year ahead. For the first time since she had met them exactly seven years ago, Harry was not a marked man, and that fact alone meant the school year would be remarkable.

In a half hour, she would have to visit the prefects compartment to lead the traditional start-of-term meeting as Head Girl, and sporadically throughout the trip, she would have to patrol the corridors, but for now she was content to sit, hand in hand with Ron, as she finally made her way back to school.

•••

“They're so small,” Ron commented in wonder. “We were not that small as first-years, there's just no way.”

Hermione wasn't about to agree with him aloud - it wouldn't do as Head Girl - but she had to agree, as she looked down the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, that the newest students could easily have passed for preschoolers. They were so young, so pure, they hadn't been through any of the things that Hermione and Harry and Ron had during their first six years as students, and Hermione hoped they never had to.

It also didn't help their cause that they were all gawking blatantly at Harry, who was trying futilely to hide behind Ginny as he ate his steak and kidney pie. He had managed to avoid a great deal of scrutiny on the train, but his entrance into the school, as anticlimactic as he'd tried to make it, had been met with stares and whispers and a request for an autograph from a small young Gryffindor. “You defeat one Dark Lord and nobody’ll leave you alone,” he had muttered as he wedged himself between Ginny and Demelza Robins.

Up at the Head Table, Professor McGonagall sat in the Headmaster’s chair, flanked on either side by Professor Flitwick and Professor Slughorn. The latter seemed determined to chat up Professor Sinistra, who looked like she found the pile of peas on her plate a great deal more interesting. Considering the way the past couple of years had gone, Hermione felt they should merely count their blessings that Harry hadn't been asked to fill the role.

“You know what?” Ginny decided as Harry tried to ignore two young boys pointing boldly at his scar. “Let's take this lot to go.”

“What?” Harry asked in confusion, but Ginny was already waving her wand, floating chicken wings and mashed potatoes and treacle tart into a small box that she had conjured up.

“Professor McGonagall’s already done her speech,” said Ginny, “so we really don't need to sit here with everyone watching us - plus, Hermione, you know the password, right?”

“Yes, I do, but we can't just-”

“No, she's right,” said Ron, levitating a pork chop into the box. “There's no point sitting around and letting everyone talk about us. Let's get out of here.”

Under the table, Ginny discreetly passed the box of food to Harry and then gave an exaggerated yawn, stretching her arms out wide and knocking a fist into a flagon of pumpkin juice.

“Oh, no,” she moaned dramatically as the bright orange liquid spread down the table. Cramming the box into his rucksack, Harry darted to the door with Ron following closely behind him. “Oh, what a mess,” Ginny continued, moving to wipe up the spill and instead upending a tureen of sliced carrots. “Uh oh, you know what, I'm making it worse, why don't I just…”

And within seconds she was out of sight.

Five minutes later found Hermione approaching the Fat Lady’s portrait on the seventh floor, where her boyfriend and her two best friends waited patiently for her.

“There she is,” said Ron with a smile. “What took you so long?”

“Oh, I thought I'd actually help clean up that mess,” she explained, shaking her head at a rather proud-looking Ginny. “Filibuster,” she added to the Fat Lady, who swung open to allow them entry to the common room.

It was the same as it had always been, with squashy old furniture and wooden tables and a crackling fireplace. The group hesitated, drinking in the sight of the place, before Ron took Hermione by the hand and led her over to their usual sofa near the fire.

“We had our second kiss in here,” Hermione commented quietly as they settled into the furniture. “Do you remember?”

“Yeah, of course I remember.” Ron dropped his rucksack on the floor at their feet. “Actually, if I recall correctly, I think it was our second, and third… and fourth, and fifth and sixth-”

“Okay, point taken,” Hermione laughed, accepting a plate from Ginny.

The memory felt simultaneously like it was from a different lifetime and like it had happened yesterday, finding Ron in the common room mere hours after the battle had ended. He had been gazing into the fire, still sweaty, still grimy from the battle, when Hermione had finally emerged from the girls’ dormitory. She’d been drawn to him that day, a magnetism pulling her across the floor on bare feet to sit beside him. They hadn’t needed words; everything about the way he had looked at her, tear tracks cutting through the soot and dirt and blood on his face, had said how much she meant to him. When they’d kissed, she hadn’t minded that he tasted like smoke or that his fingernails were still dirty because he was here, safe, alive, and finally hers. They had stayed like that for what felt like hours, exchanging tender, almost tentative kisses, until Harry, as he was so prone to doing, had barged in and completely destroyed the moment.

“This was a good idea,” Harry said around a sticky mouthful of treacle tart, jolting Hermione back to the present. “You’re a genius, Gin.”

“Award-winning actress is more like it,” Ron quipped, causing Ginny to smirk and pat Harry affectionately on the leg. “You could always just get Kreacher to bring food up to your dorm if you really wanted to.”

“And have rumors go around that I reckon I’m too important to eat with the rest of the school? No thanks.” Harry crammed the crust of the tart into his mouth and leaned back on his palms. “I’m basically screwed either way.”

“It’ll die down,” Hermione said reassuringly. “It’s just that the last time most of these people saw you, you were - well-” It didn’t quite need to be said aloud.

“Right,” Harry nodded, looking suddenly sullen. “You know what, I’m going to bed. The sooner I wake up and it’s tomorrow, the faster these ten months will go, right?”

When he received no response, he simply leaned over, kissed Ginny, and stood, giving them all a little wave as he made for the boys’ staircase.

“He really does not want to be here at all,” Ginny remarked as the sound of Harry’s footsteps died out. “Not even a little bit.”

Ron gave a little jerk of his head as if to agree with her. “We just have to do what we have to do."

 

_Thank you for reading! Please review :)_


	2. Back to the Grind

Hermione woke early, the sunlight streaming through the gaps in the curtains around her four-poster, and let the reality of her circumstances wash over her. She was back at Hogwarts. Ron was on the other side of Gryffindor Tower in his dorm; elsewhere in her room, Ginny and Demelza slumbered peacefully. Classes were starting today. She was Head Girl. A year ago, none of this would have seemed remotely possible; back then, she and Ron and Harry had been planning to infiltrate the Ministry and the most she’d ever done with Ron was hold hands as they fell asleep, but time had made all the difference. Indeed, it felt a bit odd - in a good way - to wake up at Hogwarts and not have a Voldemort-related problem at the forefront of her mind.

 

She was the first student in the common room that morning, so she opened up _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 7_ and casually perused it from an overstuffed armchair. The first chapter was on Conjuring Spells, which Hermione had already mastered over the previous year, so she simply flipped ahead to human Transfiguration. The diagrams here were a bit jarring to behold - she recalled all too clearly how disturbed she had been when Viktor Krum had half-transfigured himself into a shark - so she skipped forward again and began to read about Healing and Medicinal Magic. This would have been useful information last year, back when Ron had lost so much blood in that brutal Splinching. Maybe if he’d been able to recover more easily, if she’d been able to heal him, he wouldn’t have been so susceptible to the torture of the Horcrux, maybe he would have stayed-

 

“You’re up early,” came Ron’s voice from across the room as he descended the stairs with Harry trailing behind him. “Are you already studying? We haven’t even had our first class yet.”

 

“You’re still surprised by this?” Harry commented with mild bemusement on his features. “Haven’t you ever met her?”

 

Hermione closed her book and rose, meeting Ron halfway across the room to press a quick kiss to his lips.

 

“Ginny was still sleeping when I left, Harry,” Hermione said, “so she might be a little while.”

 

“That’s fine, I’ll wait for her. You lot go ahead.” When they paused, he raised his eyebrows at them. “Seriously. Less time in the Great Hall, the better.”

 

The Great Hall was still rather quiet when they arrived for breakfast and discovered stacks of parchment at the end of each long table.

 

“It’s our schedules!” Hermione realized excitedly, rifling through the piles until she found hers and Ron’s. Hers was as full as she had expected it to be. Between Charms, Transfiguration, Herbology, Potions, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Arithmancy, and Ancient Runes, there wasn’t a free period to be seen. Not that Hermione minded much: she knew every NEWT-level course she took - and aced - would aid her in her future career.

 

Ron’s days were slightly less busy, as he was only taking the five courses required to enter the Auror program. As they sat down to plates of scrambled eggs and sausage, he compared their timetables, furrowing his brow as he did.

 

“Hermione,” he said, glancing back and forth between the sheets of parchment, “when exactly do you plan to do homework? Or, you know, eat? Or sleep?”

 

‘It’s all the same classes I took sixth year, it won’t be any different.”

 

“But it is different, because when are you going to hang out with me?” he asked, making his best attempt at sad puppy-dog eyes at her.

 

“All the times I normally do, like right now.”

 

“Well…” Ron glanced around at the mostly-empty table and slipped his hand onto her thigh. “I mean, alone with me.”

 

“Oh.” He had been talking about it ever since the Wizengamot rejected Kingsley’s bill and he knew he’d be going back to Hogwarts, joking about all of the secret places in the castle where they could sneak off during their free time. “I’m sure we can work something out.”

 

“I’ve got a free period after this,” said Ron in a low voice. “How about if you skive off Ancient Runes and come up to my room-” At Hermione’s disbelieving glare, he cut himself off. “Or not.”

 

“It’s the first day,” she said in disbelief. “I’m not skiving off on the first day.”

 

“So you might in the future?” His face lit up with misguided optimism.

 

“Ron.”

 

“Okay, fine,” he shrugged it off. “Forget I asked.”

 

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to be with him - it had barely been a day and she already missed it - but she wasn’t here on some sort of all-inclusive vacation. She was here to take her NEWTs, as was Ron, and so she needed to take it seriously.

 

“We’ll find another time,” Hermione added softly, placing her hand over his. “I promise.”

 

With a nod, Ron touched his lips to the side of her head and picked up his fork, digging into his serving of eggs. Slowly the table began to fill up, though few people paid them any mind; they simply weren’t as interesting to the general public without Harry around. From the Ravenclaw table, Luna Lovegood gave them a cheerful wave, though she seemed rather engrossed in a recent edition of the Quibbler. Ron was just helping himself to a slice of toast when Ginny and Harry bounded up to the table, the former brimming with energy.

 

“So, I’ve decided,” she declared as she seated herself across from Hermione. “As Quidditch captain, I’m holding tryouts on Saturday, and both of you-” She pointed a finger each at Ron and Harry “will have to try out if you want to be on the team again.”

 

“Why so soon?” asked Ron.

 

“Because our first match is against Slytherin and I want to have my team together as soon as possible.” She pulled a bowl of porridge toward her. “So you had better get practicing.”

 

•••

 

Laden down with homework, Hermione left Ancient Runes and made her way to the dungeons for Potions, where Ron, Harry and Ginny were all waiting outside the classroom door.

 

“And how was Ancient Runes?” Ron asked, slinging an arm around her shoulders.

 

“Very important,” Hermione said pointedly, eliciting a snicker from him. “And I've got so much work to do already - how was your free period?”

 

“Bit boring, actually.”

 

They headed into the classroom, where Professor Slughorn, just as rotund and walrus-like as ever, greeted Harry as though he'd just been appointed Minister of Magic, wringing his hand and clapping him on the back and then guiding him to a table right at the front of the classroom.

 

“A prime seat for my star student,” he boomed as Harry stared pleadingly back at his friends. “Don't think I've forgotten your Potion-brewing skills this past year, oh no!”

 

“Er, well,” Harry stammered as Ron bit down on his fist to keep from laughing, “I might be a bit rusty, sir, I haven't had to brew a potion in a while-”

 

“Oh, nonsense,” said Slughorn. “No need to be modest, m’boy, we've all seen what you can do!”

 

But in the end, Ron, Ginny and Hermione felt they couldn't leave Harry to suffer alone in the front row like that, so they plunked their cauldrons down beside his and set up their ingredient kits. As class commenced, Professor Slughorn started to explain the many uses of valerian root in healing and sedative potions. Hermione's parchment was soon filled with tidy, detailed notes, but when she glanced over at Ron, all she saw on his parchment was a half-complete game of hangman that he was evidently playing with Harry.

 

“Have you even considered taking notes?” Hermione hissed across the table.

 

“Not particularly,” he muttered back, adding an arm to the stick figure on the page and sliding it back to Harry.

 

“Ron-” But as Professor Slughorn prattled on, Hermione opted not to argue and simply released an exasperated breath. “Fine.”

 

The class soon moved on to brewing their own cauldrons of Dreamless Sleep, the best of which would be sent to the hospital wing to aid students still struggling with war-related nightmares. Without an annotated version of the textbook to help him, Harry's potion was merely passable, as was Ron's, while Ginny’s was good and Hermione’s was nearly perfect. They bottled up small vials to be graded and dropped them off at the front of the classroom, Harry receiving gushing reassurances from their professor that he'd be back to form in no time, and then proceeded out into the corridor.

 

“Maybe I won't let you borrow my notes this year,” Hermione stated coolly as they all traipsed across the lawn to the Herbology greenhouses. “What would happen then?”

 

“You said the same thing fifth year, and you caved after a week,” said Ron, hitching his bag higher up on his shoulder.

 

“Maybe I mean it this year.”

 

“Fine, then I guess I'll fail and the whole year will be a waste,” he said, so flippant and nonchalant that Hermione's exasperation came back tenfold.

 

“No, you won't, but you have to actually-” She shook her head in frustration and sped ahead of him, yanking open the door to the greenhouse. The air was humid, thick with the scent of blossoming plants, and Hermione found a stool near the front. As she pulled on her gloves, Ron approached.

 

“Hey, I was just kidding,” he said quietly. “It's only the first day, anyway.”

 

Hermione nodded tersely, her eyes on the ancient wooden table. “All right.”

 

The rest of the day carried on in a similar fashion, and by the time Professor Flitwick was dismissing them from Charms class, Hermione had grown weary of even trying to make Ron and Harry take their classes seriously. They spent most of Transfiguration bewitching their quills to fight each other and most of Charms discussing Quidditch tactics and the upcoming tryouts. By the time dinner rolled around, Hermione almost felt she would rather be alone. Instead, she simply started on her mountain of homework, paging intently through the Spellman’s Syllabary as she ate. Around her, students chattered animatedly about the new professors and how they spent their extended summers, but Hermione tuned them all out. She had to write a two-foot essay entirely in Runes, and it wasn't helping that Ron kept rubbing her knee through her robes as they sat in the Great Hall.

 

“What?” she finally asked, snapping her head to look at him.

 

“Do you want to go for a walk after this?”

 

“I have a lot of homework to do,” she replied. “And so do you, Flitwick set that essay on Animation Spells-”

 

“And it isn't due until Friday.” He bumped his shoulder lightly into hers. “Just for a little bit?”

 

“I don't know. Maybe.”

 

Ron swallowed heavily and lowered his voice. “Are you still mad at me because of Potions?”

 

“No,” she said, even though she was frustrated with him, a bit, “I just have a lot to do and you keep distracting me.”

 

“I'm distracting you, am I?” A grin stretching over his face, he shifted his hand further up her thigh. “Well, you know I would hate to do that…”

 

“Ron, stop,” said Hermione, nudging him away. “And have you realized that the more homework you get done during the week, the more time we can spend together on weekends?”

 

He crinkled his nose at her. “Yeah, I reckon you're right.”

 

•••

 

The first Saturday of term dawned cold and grey with the ever present threat of rain hanging over the castle. Ginny was practically vibrating with excitement, Harry was nonplussed, but Ron, well, Ron had spent the last twenty-four hours constantly on the verge of emptying his stomach. Friday evening saw him shaky and pale, unable to focus on much of anything and even darting off to the nearest lavatory at one point. All the things Hermione wanted to say to him - reminding him that it was just Quidditch, that when he was confident in himself he could do anything he pleased - would be of little service to him in this state, so she had kept quiet, instead offering wordless support, her head on his shoulder as they had sat together in the common room, her fingers laced through his.

 

“Ron looks rather nervous,” Luna commented as she and Hermione sat in the stands, watching as tryouts went underway.

 

“Yes,” Hermione had to agree. There were two other people trying out for Keeper, and his sister being Captain actually worked against him. “He is, a bit.”

 

“I wonder why he plays Quidditch, then?” Luna went on in her usual manner of speaking uncomfortable truths. “It seems to give him a great deal of stress.”

 

“So how's your dad, Luna?” Hermione readily changed topics. Out on the pitch, Ginny was flinging golf balls into the air for Harry to catch as substitutes for Golden Snitches; he grabbed every one nimbly, almost casually, even when she chucked one low across the grass.

 

“Oh, he's doing well,” Luna replied. “In fact this summer, there was a record number of plimpies in the pond near our house - they do have many magical properties, you know.”

 

“Right, that's great,” Hermione said absently. There had been a couple of other students planning to try out for Seeker, but they now backed off the field after seeing Harry even as Ginny encouraged them to make an attempt.

 

“No, come back,” Ginny was saying kindly to a third-year girl. “At least give it a shot, you never know, you might be better than this git.” She jerked a thumb toward Harry, who nodded his agreement.

 

But the girl just shook her head, her face flushing as she made eye contact with Harry, and scurried away.

 

“So you had a nice summer, then?” Hermione continued to Luna. The first student to try out for Keeper, a skinny fourth-year, rose into the sky in front of the goalposts.

 

“Oh, yes, now that our house is rebuilt.”

 

“Right, I'm sorry about that,” Hermione said with a cringe as the player on-field blocked a goal with ease.

 

“That's quite all right. And anyway, Dad says that it gave him a chance to…”

 

But Hermione had stopped listening. Try as Ginny might to throw the most challenging shots on goal with the Quaffle, none of them thus far had made it past the potential Keeper. If Ron lost his spot on the team to a fourteen-year-old, the blow would be almost irreparable, and Hermione couldn't allow it to happen. Just as she was surreptitiously removing her wand from her robes, Ginny faked left and made a shot to the right, sending the Quaffle soaring through the hoop. Wand at the ready just in case, Hermione watched with bated breath as Ginny aimed another clear shot and scored.

 

“Okay, three out of five,” Ginny told the boy. “That's not bad. Ron, you're up next.”

 

As Ron mounted his Cleansweep and kicked off, Hermione said a quick and silent prayer to whatever deity might have been listening. Now fifty feet in the air, Ron caught Hermione’s eye and waved quickly at her, which she returned with a broad smile.

 

She wasn't naive enough to think that her mere presence had imbued him with the confidence to block every shot: perhaps she was wishing so fervently for his success that she performed accidental magic. Whatever had transpired, Ron looked cautiously optimistic as he touched down on the ground and sat down beside Harry to watch the remainder of the tryouts unfold, and Hermione was beaming.

 

The third person to try out for Keeper was a second-year girl who had plainly never been on a broomstick before and giggled furiously at the sight of Harry; Ginny dismissed her when she dove to block a shot and nearly fell from her broomstick.

 

Over an hour passed as Ginny tried out Chasers and Beaters. A very light drizzle had begun to fall before the final team was assembled: Harry as Seeker; Ron as Keeper; Ginny, Demelza, and Jack Sloper as Chasers; and Jimmy Peakes and Ritchie Cootes reprising their roles as Beaters.

 

“Our first practice is tomorrow morning at nine,” Ginny told the team after the decisions were announced. “Make sure you're on time, our match against Slytherin is in November and we’ve got to flatten them.”

 

Outside of the changing rooms, Hermione waited patiently as the younger players streamed out, and when she was sure that only Ron, Harry, and Ginny remained, she magicked open the door and slipped inside.

 

“The problem,” Ron was saying to Ginny as he shoved his Quidditch boots into a locker, “is people will think you played favorites.”

 

“Let them think that,” Ginny replied firmly. “I tried to get people to try out against Harry and they wouldn't, and you blocked every goal, I have witnesses.”

 

“Yeah, I’m one of them,” Hermione chimed in to announce her presence. Ron dropped the pair of Keeper’s gloves he'd been holding and stepped over a bench to greet her. “Congratulations,” she said as she hugged him tightly around the neck and kissed his cheek. “You really were brilliant.”

 

“Yeah, you didn't even have to Confund anyone,” Harry blurted out. Over Ron's shoulder, Hermione saw Harry's face drain of color as her own stomach plummeted into her shoes.

 

“What are you talking about?” Ron said with a brief laugh, loosening his hold on Hermione.

 

“Nothing, nothing,” said Harry hurriedly, convincing absolutely nobody. “I - yeah, I was thinking of something else. Don't mind me.”

 

Harry, in their seven years of friendship, had had many moments of brilliant lie-telling, but this, Hermione thought miserably, was not one of them.

 

“What's he on about?” Ron asked, his hands now on Hermione’s shoulders.

 

“It's - it’s nothing, really-” Hermione stuttered, her gaze locked onto his hairline because she couldn't bear to look into his eyes.

 

“Then why do you have that look on your face?”

 

“Well…” Hermione bit her lip and forced herself to meet Ron's eyes. She couldn't lie to him, even when she really believed he was better off not knowing any of this. “Remember that it was two years ago when this happened-”

 

“McLaggen,” said Ron with an air of realization. “I remember now, he was walking into walls after tryouts that year, but I didn't think he was really - he was really Confunded?” Hermione nodded slowly. “You Confunded him?”

 

“Ron, it was just - you know how he was, he was vile, and I just thought I should make sure that-”

 

“Make sure I made the team?” he concluded, his hands dropping to his sides. “Because I wasn't good enough otherwise?”

 

“No, it wasn't like that,” Hermione insisted desperately as Ron backed away from her, a horrible pain etched on his freckled face. “Just listen for a second-”

 

“And you,” said Ron, now rounding on Harry, “you knew this whole fucking time and you never bothered to say anything?”

 

“I - I didn't know until after, mate, honestly-”

 

But Ron, evidently, had heard enough. Shaking his head, he snatched his rucksack up from the floor and stormed out of the changing room, leaving a heavy tension among its three remaining occupants.

 

“Hermione,” Harry began, “I'm so sorry, I really thought he knew, I thought you'd have told him.”

 

“ _Why_ would I tell him that?” Determined tears forced their way down her cheeks. “I was never going to tell him, he never needed to know.”

 

“I just thought - you know, now that you're-”

 

“You're an idiot,” Hermione spat at him, turning on her heel and bolting. If she hurried, she could catch Ron before he reached the castle. As she stepped outside, however, she learned that the fog from the rain had grown thick, obscuring her vision so that she could only see a few feet ahead of herself at a time. By the time she reached the castle doors, Ron was nowhere to be seen.


	3. Faith

Hermione spent the afternoon scouring the castle, looking for any sign of Ron, but he had somehow managed to make himself undetectable, and around dinnertime, she dragged herself back to her dormitory and flung herself face down on the bed. She had intended to take that small tidbit of information to her grave, knowing it would do nothing but hurt him and dredge up old unfounded insecurities. And now, because Harry Potter didn't know how to keep his mouth shut, Ron was rightfully furious.

 

Or was he furious? He had looked more betrayed than anything else, and it was that look in his eyes that made Hermione feel physically ill. She had caused that. The person who she loved more than anything else, who she trusted with her life, she had made him feel that way. And while it had taken place years ago, long before they had ever kissed, long before either of them had ever said ‘I love you’ (even in that weary, thank-you-for-fixing-my-essay sort of way Ron had once done), the wound for him was fresh and raw and real. But she did love him, and she did have faith in him, and if she had to spend her life proving that to him, she would.

 

“Hi,” said a tentative voice from the doorway. Hermione rolled over to see Ginny, still in her practice robes, holding a plate bearing a sandwich and a sliced apple. “Are you okay?”

 

Sniffling, Hermione wiped her cheeks. “Yeah,” she croaked, forcing herself to sit up. “Have you seen Ron?”

 

“No.” Ginny crossed the room to perch on the end of Hermione's bed. “He didn't come to dinner. But I brought you this, in case you want it.”

 

“Thanks.” 

 

“Harry feels really terrible,” Ginny said as she placed the plate on the bed between them. 

 

“Oh, well, that’ll fix it then, Harry feeling bad about starting it in the first place.”

 

“And Ron’ll calm down,” added Ginny. “He’ll get over it.”

 

“No, you don't get it,” Hermione said, watching a fat tear drop onto the crimson duvet. “This is - for him, this is confirmation of every bad thing he's ever thought about himself.”

 

“But it was so long ago, everything's so different now.” 

 

“You know how he's always joking around, saying he's not good enough for me?” It had been a running joke all summer, compounded by George sporadically guessing spells or potions that he thought Ron might be using to hoodwink Hermione into a relationship. “He's not really joking, he really thinks that. But the thing is, most days, I don't think I'm good enough for him.” She exhaled shakily. “But he's never going to see it that way, especially not now.”

 

“So… why don't you just tell him that?”

 

“If I could locate him, I would.”

 

“Well, he can't skip practice tomorrow morning or I'll kick him off the team,” Ginny said with a smile. “He might be my brother, but I'm still Captain.”

 

The sandwich sat abandoned on the end table overnight as Hermione tossed and turned, trying to compose her thoughts enough so that tomorrow morning, when she cornered him before his practice, she would be able to adequately explain. He had to know, on a core, subconscious level, how much she truly loved him, even if his mind was too clouded right now to allow him to feel it. At this point in their lives, he had to know that he was her favorite person in the world, that she thought he was clever and funny and immensely brave. And he had to trust her that she was telling him the truth when she said these things.

 

Eight-thirty on Sunday morning saw Hermione waiting somewhat impatiently outside of the changing room at the Quidditch pitch, hoping to intercept Ron on his way in. The whole of the team eventually trickled by, including a sympathetic Ginny and a very morose Harry, who tried to stop to talk before Ginny dragged him away by the sleeve. Finally, at five minutes until nine, Ron walked up, his Cleansweep on his shoulder. 

 

“Ron,” Hermione said, seizing the moment before he reached for the door, “can I talk to you?”

 

“I have practice,” he said flatly, jaw set. 

 

Hermione, however, was not the type of witch who took no for an answer. “How about after, then? I could stay and watch-”

 

“That's all right,” he replied, eyes fixed on a point somewhere past her head. “It's just practice, I don't reckon I'll need magical interference.” 

 

“I just want to talk to you, please-”

 

“I have practice,” he repeated, disappearing into the locker room. 

 

Hermione didn't sit in the stands during practice, knowing that her presence would have no positive impact on Ron, but she didn't go back to the castle, either. Instead she stayed outside of the changing room, knowing that he had to leave sooner or later, knowing that he couldn't avoid her forever. If there was one thing she wanted to avoid, it was allowing this to turn into another Ron and Hermione cold war, a silent standoff in which they went months without speaking or interacting at all. She had done it too many times before and she did not want to do it again. She would not lose him.

 

Not without a fight, anyway. Not without knowing it was completely unsalvageable. 

 

When Ron emerged he was flushed and sweaty and Hermione couldn't help but find it a bit attractive, but she pulled herself back to the task at hand. 

 

“Can we take a walk?” she asked hopefully, falling into step with him. “I really want to talk-”

 

“Hermione,” he interrupted, stopping and facing her. “I can't talk to you right now. I'm not trying to be an arsehole, I'm not, I just - I can't do it right now.”

 

She had seen Ron, over the past seven years, in just about every possible mood. She had seen him angry and grieving and overjoyed and upset and so she knew, looking at his bright blue eyes, that he wasn't even mad at her. He was just hurt, and that was the worst of it.

 

“I know I was wrong,” she began, “but we have to talk about it, I don't want it to be months-”

 

“It won't be.” His voice was low and calm. “I just need a little time, okay?”

 

“Ron, I love you,” she blurted out, desperate to at least tell him that.

 

“I know you do,” he said softly. “But that's not the same as having faith in me.”

 

  * •••



 

There was a time, several months ago, when Hermione had been so livid with Ron, so crushed by his behavior, that she had rebuffed his every attempt to apologize, she'd made sniping, thinly-veiled comments, she’d found even the simplest, most mundane conversation unbearably painful. Back then, Ron had been the one who had made the mistake and he hadn't expected forgiveness or friendship and he certainly hadn't tried to restore their previous almost-relationship. He had given her exactly what she needed, which was space. And so now, even though it went against her every instinct, her every impulse to seek him out and force him to listen, she did what he wanted. She let him be.

 

She ate her meals alone, early, quickly, and then spent any remaining free time in the library or working with the Head Boy (Anthony Goldstein, Ravenclaw, another Muggleborn who had gone on the run last year) to schedule prefect rounds. She saw Ron in class, where Harry did his best to act as a buffer, trying to strike up cordial conversation, but he was wholly unsuccessful. Often, during quiet moments before class or in the Great Hall, Hermione would catch Ron looking at her when he didn't think she was paying attention. 

 

But by Thursday, the five days spent with no communication were beginning to wear on her. After his triumphant return to the tent back in December, she had at least spoken to him when necessary, even if it wasn't about the actual issue at hand. Ron, however subdued he might have been, had made not one attempt at any sort of conversation. 

 

And so, in the evening lull after dinner, Hermione forewent the library for once and instead headed to the common room. Harry and Ginny were seated on the floor by the fireplace, elaborate Quidditch diagrams strewn about around them, while Ron sat in a corner of the sofa with a book open on his lap. Slowly, Hermione drew toward him.

 

“Ron?” His head popped up as she seated herself on the sofa, a good two feet away from him. “If you want to break up - if that's what this is - can… can you just tell me so that-”

 

“No,” he interrupted, shifting around to face her and looking horrified. “No, I don't want to break up with you, not at all.”

 

“Well, then, can we please just go somewhere so I can explain? Because I hate this, I really miss you.”

 

To her surprise, Ron agreed, abandoning his textbook and leading her through the portrait hole. The corridors were quiet, as it was nearly curfew, but Hermione wasn't concerned with being out after hours. She was Head Girl; she wasn't going to get detention. 

 

They were halfway down a moving staircase when Hermione finally found her voice. 

 

“The reason I did it,” she began, “is just because I knew you deserved to be on the team, I knew you were the best person for it and I just thought I should make sure of it.”

 

Ron didn't speak, instead jamming his hands into the pockets of his robes. His eyes were cast to the stone floor as they walked.

 

“Okay, but you didn't think I could do that on my own, did you?”

 

“I just really wanted to see you get on the team, I knew how much it mattered to you and I knew you deserved it.”

 

“How, exactly, did you know that?” he asked as they stepped onto the sixth floor. “The only match I didn't play like shit in during fifth year was the one you missed, remember?”

 

“Because I know you!” Hermione stopped in front of a suit of armor. “I know how good you can be when you actually get out of your own head and just trust yourself.”

 

“It's not about Quidditch, really, I know I'm not as good as Ginny or Harry or Charlie… it's just - you wouldn't know what it’s like,” he muttered, watching himself scuff the toe of his shoe against the floor. “You're brilliant and everyone knows it. Nobody expects you to fail and then goes ‘oh good, you didn't fuck up this time’ when you manage not to.”

 

“But I don't think that at all,” Hermione insisted. “Ron, I think you're amazing, I really do. You know, you're always saying how I'm this brilliant person, so if I thought you were this failure that you keep saying you are, would I want to be with you?”

 

The tips of his ears turned red. “Don't reckon you would.”

 

“I love you,” said Hermione, stepping forward to set her hands on his shoulders. “I really do.”

 

“I love you too.” Ron dropped his forehead to hers and then touched their lips together, first gently and then with such intensity that Hermione's knees nearly buckled. “Five days is way too long to go without kissing you.”

 

Hermione hummed her agreement, circling her arms around his neck and rising on her toes to be closer to him. 

 

“Why don't we…” Ron backed her up against the wall and claimed her lips hungrily with his. “Go somewhere…” His hand squeezed her hip. “So we can be alone…” 

 

Hermione nodded, about to open her mouth and make a suggestion, when the garbled yowl of an elderly cat cut through the fog of lust and need surrounding them. Mrs. Norris, evidently, had taken serious offense to their activities and alerted Filch, who hobbled angrily toward them, brandishing a mop.

 

“Back to your common room!” he barked, jabbing Ron's shoulder with the wooden handle of the mop. “You're out after curfew!”

 

“Fine, fine, we’re going,” said Ron, grabbing Hermione's hand and hurrying out of reach of the mop. Mrs. Norris’ aggravated wails grew quieter as they headed up to the seventh floor. “I guess we’re not going somewhere private after all.”

 

The common room was still rather crowded when they returned, but this didn't stop Hermione from snuggling up against him as she reviewed her Arithmancy charts, sneaking kisses whenever the impulse arose. They both seemed to feel they had a bit of lost time to make up for, even if it momentarily made them the most disgusting couple in Gryffindor. Just this once, it was worth it.

 

  * •••



 

“I have an idea,” said Ron, his voice low and furtive as they walked out of Defense Against the Dark Arts. Friday morning was bright and sunny, the corridors of Hogwarts alive with energy. “What if we skive off lunch and go back to my room?”

 

“R-really?”

 

“Yeah, no one’ll be there, it’ll be perfect, we’ll have a whole hour to ourselves.”

 

Hermione regarded him thoughtfully. It had been more difficult than anticipated to find quality time alone with him, especially given that they were in a fight for nearly a week, and she had to admit to herself that an hour with him in his bed sounded much more appealing than lunch in the Great Hall. 

 

“Okay,” she agreed, causing his eyes to widen with poorly-masked surprise. “I'll see you there in five minutes.”

 

“See ya,” he grinned, heading off down the corridor. Hermione smiled; if there was one thing Ron would gladly miss a meal for, it was this.

 

Her patience didn't quite hold out the way she had hoped. She didn't want it to be dreadfully obvious that they were both going up to the boys’ dormitory and yet she wanted to maximize on their time together, and the latter won out. Her five minute delay diminished into a mere two, and when she walked through the door on the boys’ side of the tower labeled  _ EIGHTH YEARS _ (the first and only of its kind), Ron had only gotten as far as removing his shoes and socks. 

 

The circular room only had three beds, one each for Ron, Harry and Dean Thomas, and Ron's was right in the middle. Ron shed his robes, leaving him just in his uniform, and Hermione followed suit. Left just in her crisp white blouse and charcoal skirt, Hermione padded across the floor to meet their lips. As Ron sat on the unmade bed and pulled her onto his lap, Hermione let herself sink into the kiss, slipping her tongue into his mouth. They had time, she had to remind herself. She was so accustomed to restricting herself to quick, chaste pecks that to now act on her desires felt like a privilege. 

 

Ron's hands gripped her waist, untucking the hem of her blouse, his palm flattening against the warm skin of her stomach. Sliding off of his lap, Hermione laid back on the bed and used his collar to bring him on top of her. The kisses grew more eager, more passionate; Ron's hands were everywhere, undoing buttons on her shirt one instant and skimming over her hips the next. The air was filled with the sound of panting, ragged breaths and rustling sheets and the occasional moan or whispered word. Ron ran his hand up Hermione's thigh and under her skirt, seeking out the fabric between her legs and guiding it down, tossing it recklessly to the floor. 

 

“Fuck,” Ron muttered, pressing his fingers against the warmth at her center. “You're really wet already.” The eleven days since their last coupling felt more like eleven months; Hermione widened her legs, allowing him to push a finger inside her, then two.

 

“Ron,” Hermione gasped, angling her hips into his hand. “Ron, let's just…” As good as his hand felt, she wanted to feel so much more of him. He nodded rapidly and removed his fingers, setting back to work on the buttons holding her blouse together, his lips locked onto her neck-

 

A great creaking of ancient hinges erupted through the room and Hermione froze as the half-embarrassed, half-amused laughter of one Dean Thomas hit her ears. 

 

“Shit, I'm sorry,” chuckled Dean, who had almost doubled over laughing at the sight of them and their discarded robes. “So sorry.”

 

Ron squeezed his eyes tightly shut, his face tomato red, his teeth digging into his lower lip. “Can you just sod off for like, a half hour?” 

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean agreed, “sorry, mate.” 

 

The door slammed shut again. Ron shook his head briefly as though trying to clear the memory of the last ten seconds and then moved to kiss Hermione again, but the mood was broken and she was now acutely aware that she was in Gryffindor Tower where anyone, evidently, could barge in at any moment. What if they'd been quicker to return to the dorm, quicker to undress? It was starting to feel like there was no such thing as true privacy in the castle.

 

“We should stop,” Hermione said, sitting up from underneath Ron and trying to smooth down her hair. “We really shouldn't be doing this.”

 

“No, it's okay, nobody's going to walk in now, I can guarantee you that,” said Ron as he knelt between her legs, sitting back on his heels. 

 

“I'm not even supposed to be up here, really, and - and it's grounds for expulsion,” Hermione babbled on, aware that Ron was looking at her like she had grown a second head, “engaging in sexual activity on castle grounds, and-”

 

“All we’re doing is snogging, really-”

 

“My knickers are on the floor!” 

 

“Oh, yeah,” said Ron, peering over the edge of the bed at the swatch of purple satin, which stood out like a sore thumb against the black of their robes. “But it's just Dean, he doesn't care, he's not going to tell anyone. Maybe Harry to warn him, but that's all.”

 

“But I also think I forgot to take my potion this morning-”

 

“So that's what charms are for-”

 

“And I have to go to the library anyway,” Hermione concluded in a rush of words, clambering off the bed and fetching her clothing from the floor. 

 

“No you don't, it's Friday,” Ron objected, dumbfounded as she wiggled back into her knickers. “If you changed your mind, it's okay, but at least stay and talk to me.”

 

Hermione was already shoving her feet into her shoes.

 

“I'll see you at dinner, okay?”

 

Before he could answer, she had gone.


	4. Three Hours

“So.” Harry glanced between Ron and Hermione, who sat beside each other at the Gryffindor table, and struggled to suppress a smirk. “I heard you lot had a good lunch break.”

Ron looked up from his bowl of beef stew, unsmiling. “Shut. Up.”

Hermione tore off a chunk of bread and dropped it into her bowl, watching it absorb the broth. She had spent the afternoon trying to ignore the burning guilt in her stomach over the way she had left things in his room. It wasn't over stopping their activities - Ron had never pressured her into anything - but the way she'd done it. Rather than blurt out excuses and bolt, she could have done the one thing he had asked and stayed to talk.

“Okay,” said Harry, unfazed as he leaned to whisper loudly in Ginny's ear. “You'd think he'd be in a better mood.”

“And you'd think _you_ would mind your damn business.”

Harry opened his mouth as if to continue goading him, but then seemed to think better of it and turned his attention back to his stew.

Ron, clearing his throat, tilted to the side to place his lips by Hermione's ear. “Let's go for a walk after this. It's still light out.”

Hermione agreed, giving his thigh a light squeeze under the table. Despite her failure to eat lunch - she really did seek refuge in the library for the remainder of the hour - she wasn't terribly interested in dinner. Being alone with Ron, even if they were just walking and talking, seemed a higher priority. Quickly, they finished eating, and then made their way out of the hall, ignoring the watchful eyes of the rest of the students. Once they were outside, breathing in the cool evening air, Hermione took Ron's hand.

“I'm sorry about how I left earlier,” said Hermione. “I shouldn't have just taken off like that.”

“Yeah, why did you?” asked Ron. “I still wanted to spend time with you.”

“It was just sort of mortifying,” she explained as they strolled in the general direction of the Quidditch pitch. “And then I started thinking, what if we’d gotten farther than we did and he actually saw - saw me naked or-”

“Oh, I’d’ve shut the curtains-”

“I know we talked about it over the summer, what we’d do, but it feels different now that we’re actually back at school. I feel more… exposed.”

“Well, you had lost your knickers by that point,” Ron smirked, narrowly dodging a fist to the arm.

“Stop it, I know you know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” he admitted, now serious, “I guess I do.”

It’s just not the same as it was before,” Hermione clarified. “I know it was just Dean, and maybe it wasn't as big a deal as I thought, but I just want our privacy back. Like it was before.”

“So…” Ron pursed his lips. “Is this your way of saying that it's going to be Christmas before we…”

“No, I don't think so.” Smiling shyly, she stopped to take his free hand. “We could always go to the Room of Requirement.”

“Or the prefects’ bathroom.” Ron had an impish smile cross over his face.

“Where Myrtle could pop up at any second?”

“But you'd be all soapy and wet and-”

“And we could have a bed in the Room of Requirement - we could actually have anything we wanted,” said Hermione with excitement. “It could even be romantic.”

“Oh, you don't think my dorm is romantic?” Ron feigned insult. “That hurts, Hermione.”

“We could go there now, we've got plenty of time before curfew.”

Hermione let herself picture it. The room could give them a luxurious king-sized bed, it could give them candlelight, but more importantly, it would give them all the time in the world. She wanted to feel his skin on hers, his warm breath on her lips, their bodies fully connected, as close and intimate as possible.

“It's your birthday next week,” Ron said brightly, jarring Hermione out of her brief daydream. “Maybe we can figure out a way to sneak into Hogsmeade, I've, er, I've heard that Madame Rosmerta’ll rent out rooms by the hour if you ask.”

Hermione stared up at him. “How do you know that?”

“The wealth of knowledge known as my older brothers. Except, I don't know how we'd sneak in since all the old passageways are closed off.” Suddenly he looked aggravated. “I hate being holed up here. If we were back home, I'd totally splash out for your birthday, here I can't even take you on a date.”

“You don't have to do anything.” Dropping his hands, Hermione slipped her arms around his waist. “All I want is to spend it with you.”

He did not look convinced. “It makes me feel like I'm a rubbish boyfriend… and I really don't want to screw things up with you.”

“Believe me, you're not.” Hermione stood on tiptoe to kiss his neck, then his jaw, then his lips. “I love you.”

“Love you too.” He kissed her again and then touched his lips to the tip of her nose. “Are you cold?”

“A little bit.”

“Let's go inside, we’ll warm you up.”

Contrary to what Hermione had hoped, Ron's idea of warming up involved sitting in front of the common room fire and roasting the sweets that Ginny nicked from the kitchen over it. It was, for all intents and purposes, a typical Friday night at Hogwarts, and yet Hermione could not understand why he would rather do this than accompany her in the Room of Requirement. That morning he could hardly get enough of her and she knew he wasn't angry with her, so what had changed? By the time he was kissing her goodnight, his tongue tinged with chocolate, she had confused herself more than he had ever done.

•••

A week passed, filled with Quidditch practice and Head Girl responsibilities and trying to make Ron buckle down and actually concentrate. He and Harry were infinitely more interested in arguing over which Quidditch team in the League had the best chances at winning and scouring the news for signs that the Wizengamot might rehear Kingsley’s bill. When, inevitably, there was nothing, it rendered them irritated and sullen, as though they had expected to somehow will it into happening. Most nights, Hermione only had an hour or two to spend with Ron, and they always took place in the heavily-populated common room. She was starting to wonder if he would end up being right about having to wait until Christmas after all.

Hermione woke on Saturday morning to her bed bouncing and for one foolish moment thought Ron had broken into her room, but when she opened her eyes, a different Weasley was grinning down at her.

“Wake up!” Ginny urged from her seat at the foot of the bed. “I can't believe this is the one day you decide to have a lie-in.”

Hermione sat up, noticing as she did that a small chocolate cupcake sat on her nightstand atop a slip of parchment.

 _Happy birthday, Hermione!_ read the note in Ron's messy scrawl. _When you're ready, meet me in the common room. Love you!_

“Ready?” Hermione looked up from the note. “Ready for what?”

Ginny gave an exaggerated shrug and climbed off the bed. “Even if I knew, I couldn't tell you.”

Half an hour later, Hermione descended the staircase to see Ron alone in the common room. One knee bounced rapidly as he sat in an armchair, his head turning at the sound of her steps. Immediately he jumped up, his face alight with excitement, and crossed the distance between them.

“Happy birthday,” he smiled, presenting her with a single, pristine red rose.

“Where did you get this?” asked Hermione, pleasantly surprised. Roses, after all, weren't exactly growing in the Herbology greenhouses.

“I Conjured it,” Ron admitted. “I think I did all right, though there's no thorns on it, but that's probably good, actually.”

“It's perfect,” said Hermione, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Thank you.”

He kissed her lightly and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Wait here, all right? I need to get Harry, he's part of the plan.”

“Okay,” she said warily as he bounded up to his dorm, taking the stairs two at a time. Any plan that required Harry's involvement certainly couldn’t be expected to fully abide by the rules.

Harry, pajama-clad and bleary-eyed, gave Hermione a lazy wave in greeting and cleared his throat. “Kreacher?”

There was a crack like a car backfiring, and the ancient house-elf appeared, wearing a towel bearing the Hogwarts crest as a toga.

“Master Harry has called Kreacher?”

“Yes,” said Harry, sitting on the arm of a nearby chair. “I need your help today. This is an order.”

“Yes, Master Harry,” said Kreacher dutifully.

“Today,” Harry began, speaking very deliberately, “you need to take Ron and Hermione exactly where they ask you to take them, and then you're to come right back to the castle. And then later today, you're to go exactly where I tell you and bring them back to Gryffindor Tower. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master Harry.”

“And you're not to speak of this to anyone else, all right? Just me, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny. That's an order too.”

“Kreacher will do what Master Harry wishes.”

Harry shrugged and stood, gesturing grandly at the wrinkly elf before them and turning to face Ron and Hermione. “Your chariot awaits.”

Before Hermione could voice her protests, Kreacher had seized her by the wrist and vanished into nothingness, rematerializing in the middle of High Street in Hogsmeade.

“Ron,” she gasped as Kreacher disappeared, “we did not just Disapparate out of the castle.”

“Oh, but we did,” Ron said proudly, taking her hand and starting down the sidewalk. “And when we want to go back, I'll just send Harry a Patronus and he’ll send Kreacher to get us.”

“If we get caught, we will be in so much trouble-”

“Well, not really,” Ron replied thoughtfully. “There's actually no rule that forbids leaving the castle by Apparition specifically, mostly because it can't be done by humans. So I might have found a loophole. And besides, McGonagall would never expel you.”

“I suppose…”

“The worst we’re looking at is detention, and it's worth the risk to me. Now come on,” he said, pushing through the door to the Three Broomsticks, “I'm taking you out to breakfast.”

Unbeknownst to Hermione, the Three Broomsticks did indeed serve breakfast on weekend mornings. Ron insisted on ordering enormous full English breakfasts, which they washed down with tea and pumpkin juice. It was funny, Hermione thought, how they saw each other every day, they had nearly every class together, and yet one-on-one time like this made her feel like she hadn't properly seen him in weeks. For once they had each other's undivided attention and the words just flowed freely, old reminiscences about their first trip together into the village and speculation on what the future might hold.

“So,” said Ron, pushing away his empty plate, “this is the point where I, er… give you your gift.”

“I really didn't want you to buy me anything-”

“It’s not the sort of thing you buy,” he said as his ears turned red. “Well, I reckon you _could_ , but I wouldn't want you to - anyway, I'll be right back.”

He strolled over to the bar, where he exchanged a few words with Madame Rosmerta and returned with a small brass key on a loop of ribbon. Hermione hesitated: the pub was low on patrons at this early hour, but it wasn't completely empty. Then again, time alone with Ron was at a premium lately, and unlike in Gryffindor tower, she could be certain that nobody would interrupt them… and if they could just manage to slip up the stairs undetected...

Taking Ron's hand, Hermione followed him up the staircase to the rented rooms. Theirs was number seven, at the very end of the hallway. It contained a neatly made double bed, a wooden dresser and had a door off to one side that Hermione assumed opened up to the loo.

“We have the room for three hours,” Ron explained, toeing off his shoes. Through the window on the far wall, Hermione could see the Scottish Highlands and Hogwarts in the distance. She had first visited this place when she was fourteen but it felt like a completely different world now, here, on her nineteenth birthday with the man she loved. And she was going to make the most of that.

She couldn't have said who acted first: their lips crushed together almost of their own accord, hands grasping at clothing, eagerly removing layer after layer until Hermione was reduced to a bra and knickers and Ron down to his pants. Shoving aside the duvet, they fell back onto the bed, Ron lavishing kisses onto her neck and over her chest. His lips drifted down to the subtle curve of her breasts, hands shifting the lacy material of her bra away. Reaching between her shoulder blades, he found the clasp of her bra and fumbled with it, laughing into the curve of her neck.

“I'm out of practice,” he joked just before the clasp popped open.

With one hand, he shoved the garment away, now running his tongue along the underside of her breast, allowing his teeth to nip lightly at her soft skin. Hermione's breath hitched in her throat as Ron placed a soft kiss on her nipple and then moved to her other side. Gradually, almost agonizingly so, Ron's attention moved lower, down her torso and past her belly button until he was faced with the waistband of her knickers. A familiar pulsing developed between her legs as Ron rendered her completely bare and pressed his lips to the inside of her thigh.

As his tongue swept over her damp folds, a ragged sigh fell from her lips. They had three whole hours, they could take their time, there was no need to rush the way they would have done had they continued on in his dorm last week. Ron hooked one of her legs over his shoulder, opening her up so he could slide two fingers into her warmth. As his hand pumped in and out of her, his tongue worked at her swollen nub, eliciting throaty whimpers and causing her to angle her hips into his mouth.

“Ron…” Hermione's legs writhed around on the bedsheets, her hands delving into his hair. “Don't stop, oh God…”

Her hips rising up from the mattress, Hermione let out a heavy moan and tightened her fingers around Ron's hair. Heart pounding, her legs trembled, chest heaving, as Ron eased his hand out of her.

“You okay?” asked Ron, a bit out of breath himself as he wiped off his mouth.

“Mhmm.” Hermione arched her back, little aftershocks of pleasure coursing through her. “I take it that was the gift?”

He laid a wet kiss on the inside of her thigh, grinning as his lips landed on her skin. “Maybe…”

Still trembling, Hermione slid her hands over his shoulders, tugging on his upper arms. “Come here.”

Ron crawled up her body, kissing her shoulder and neck as Hermione reached for the waist of his pants and pushed them down over his hips. He kicked them off, his tip pressing against her. She gave him an almost imperceptible nod and wound her legs around his waist, sighing as he pushed inside.

“Fuck,” he groaned, thrusting fervently into her. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

Hermione brought her lips to his neck, using her heels to drive him deeper inside. Gone was the desire to savor and appreciate the moment; there would be time for that later. Now, she just wanted to feel him, hard and fast, and he obliged. He hitched her leg high up on his hip, using her thigh to hold her in place as their bodies crashed together. The motion of Ron's hips grew frenzied and erratic and Hermione's walls clamped tightly around him. Grunting out her name, Ron spilled into her, his mouth on her neck. For a moment, as the room slowly came back into focus, they remained locked together, regaining their composure.

“Fuck,” he muttered again, gently withdrawing from her and catching her lips with his. “Bloody brilliant.”

“It was,” Hermione couldn't help but agree.

Ron sat up and reached for the foot of the bed, drawing a crisp white linen sheet over their bare bodies. Lying on his side, he used his arm as a pillow and trailed his free hand over her stomach, up her chest and along her neck, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. The corner of his mouth tilted upward.

“I love you,” he said quietly, his voice brimming with such sincerity that Hermione felt sure her heart skipped a beat. “I'm really glad you were born. Do I sound like a prat saying that?”

She shook her head. “I love you too,” she replied in the instant before their lips met in a soft, slow kiss. Hermione would have gladly stayed that way for the rest of their time at the inn, lazily moving her mouth over his, but he released a breath and pulled away.

“God, I've missed you,” he remarked with an air of incredulity. “Isn't that mental? And I don't just mean that I miss this - I mean, I do, but - I just miss you. I know we see each other every day but we’re always in class or there’s people around and it's never just us anymore.”

“I know what you mean.” Hermione knew the words she wanted to say carried the risk of sounding sappy or trite, but she continued anyway. “I miss falling asleep with you.”

“Me too!” Ron smiled widely at her. “It's just not the same listening to Harry's snoring instead of yours.”

“Excuse me? I don't snore.”

Ron, looking personally affronted, dropped his jaw open. “Excuse me, yes you do. You snore like a troll.”

“Do not!” Hermione objected, pinching his chest.

“I would know, wouldn't I?”

“Oh, you would? Have you had lots of slumber parties with trolls, then?”

Ron laughed, rolling on top of her and fitting his lips against hers. The sensation of their bare chests pressed together stole her breath and she kissed him again, her fingers in his hair to keep him close. All joking now forgotten, Hermione moved a knee to either side of his waist. There was still time left before they had to return to reality, to curfews and dorm rooms and classes, and she was ready now to cling to it, to soak in every second.

Their hips nestled together, Hermione brushed his sweaty hair out of his eyes and kissed him, pulling his lower lip into her mouth.

“Do you want to? Again?”

With a nod, Hermione placed her hands on his sides. “Let's go slow this time.”

“Yeah,” Ron agreed, slipping inside.

Hermione ran her hands over his back as he moved gently, carefully within her. Burying her face in his neck, she let her eyes drift shut and focused only on him, on his sweat and his voice and the feeling of being completely filled by him. Their lips sought each other out in sloppy, affectionate kisses; sometimes they missed each other's mouths and they just laughed and tried again. It was everything she wanted, everything she had longed for over the past nineteen days.

“What were we talking about, before?” Ron asked when they had finished, Hermione snuggled into his side.

“Troll slumber parties, I think?”

“Right.” Ron picked up the hand of hers that was lying on his chest and kissed her fingertips, then her wrist; Hermione hooked a leg over his. “Careful with that or I'm going to start getting ideas.”

“How much time do we have left?”

“Not enough,” said Ron, before extending an arm to retrieve his watch from the nightstand to actually check.

“Just lay with me,” said Hermione. “We never get to do this anymore.”

Ron kissed her forehead and hugged her as close as he could. Closing her eyes, Hermione listened to the dull thudding of his heart in her ear and took a deep breath. Here, with him, she could relax, focus on his hand drifting along her spine…

“Hermione.” She was being nudged awake. “Love, we've got to go in five minutes.”

“Really?” But Ron was so warm, and the bed was so soft, and now that she'd had a bit of a nap, a third go with him sounded rather enticing, and who knew when they would get the chance again?

“Yeah, we've got to go.” He kissed her and rolled out of bed, searching for his pants amongst the discarded clothing strewn over the floor. As he pulled them on, Hermione sat up, tangled sheets covering her chest, and shamelessly watched him. “What are you looking at?”

“You,” she stated plainly. “Can't I admire you?”

Amused, he shook his head and bent over to kiss her soundly on the mouth. “I hate to say it, but you've got to get dressed.”

Since they had missed lunch up at the castle, they opted to have another meal at the Three Broomsticks. After the morning they’d had, they were parched and ravenous and Hermione was sure it was no secret to anyone else why, but she pushed the embarrassment to the back of her mind. It was nothing to be ashamed of, being intimate with her boyfriend. They were adults and they loved each other and there was nothing wrong with wanting to express that, even if their circumstances meant they had to sneak around to do it.

After lunch, Ron declared that no trip to Hogsmeade was complete without a visit to Honeydukes. There, he insisted on buying Hermione a batch of fudge and snuck in some Sugar Quills at the last second.

“I suppose we should be getting back,” Hermione said when they stepped onto the sidewalk, laden down with treats.

Ron let out a long, almost weary breath. “Yeah, reckon so. All right, I'll let Harry know.”

A casual flick of his wand sent a silver terrier streaking through the sky toward the castle. Within minutes, Kreacher appeared, looking a bit sullen.

“Thanks for your help, Kreacher,” Ron said kindly as the elf grabbed his wrist with a bony, long-fingered hand.

“Kreacher is just following Master Harry's orders,” explained the elf just before the three of them vanished. After half an instant of suffocation and darkness, they found themselves standing in the Gryffindor common room, face to face with one other than Minerva McGonagall. Hermione's stomach flipped violently at the sight of the Headmaster; the bag of candy slipped from Ron’s fingers and thudded to the floor.

“Miss Granger. Mister Weasley.” Her mouth was set in a thin, straight line. “Come with me, please.”

* * *

 

 

Thank you for reading! Please review :)


	5. Damage Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter is a bit shorter and more of a transition chapter, so I'll be posting Chapter 6 in just a couple days! Hope you like this one.

_I'm sorry_ , Ron mouthed to Hermione as they walked, footsteps echoing through the vast corridor. Professor McGonagall strode briskly ahead of them, never bothering to glance back; Hermione fired a burning glare in Ron's direction.

How could she possibly have thought that this wouldn't backfire on them? She was Head Girl. She should have known better than to think she could use her friend's house elf to sneak out of the castle with her boyfriend. McGonagall would think her irresponsible, would think she had her priorities all wrong, might even strip her of her title, all because she and Ron were so desperate to escape the castle.

They followed McGonagall past the stone gargoyle and up the rotating staircase into her office. From above her desk, the portrait of Albus Dumbledore winked fondly at them.

"Sit down, please," said McGonagall, gesturing to two chairs in front of her desk. Wordlessly, Ron and Hermione perched upon them, backs ramrod straight as though that might convey a sense of latent propriety and respectability.

"Professor-" Ron began, only to find himself silenced when she held up a hand.

"Miss Granger." McGonagall regarded Hermione through her square glasses. "Earlier today, I attempted to invite you to a meeting to discuss the upcoming trip to Hogsmeade - the one for all the students, you understand, that not the special one you made today." Hermione swallowed. "Naturally, when you didn't come to the meeting, I became very worried and went to look for you. It was then, of course, that I came upon Mr. Potter receiving a message from a terrier Patronus. Mr. Weasley, I believe your Patronus is a terrier?"

"Yes, but Professor, it's all my fault," said Ron urgently. "It was my idea, I asked Harry to have Kreacher help us, Hermione didn't have any clue. If you're going to punish someone, it should be me, not her."

McGonagall simply raised her eyebrows at his words, and Ron fell silent.

"I understand that after the events of the past year, coming back to Hogwarts must be a bit of an adjustment for all of you, but that does not give you the right to leave the castle anytime you please just because you've found the means to do so." She narrowed her eyes at the couple. "You must realize the security problem this creates for me if other students catch on to this."

"I'm so sorry, Professor," said Hermione, her voice full of remorse. "We never should have left, I completely understand if you want to demote me-"

"No," Ron interrupted. "No, do whatever you want to me, expel me if you have to, but Hermione doesn't deserve-"

"Fifty points will be taken from Gryffindor," declared McGonagall. "But you are not to share the details of how you lost them. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Professor," they replied in unison.

"That is all. You may go."

They were halfway down the corridor, Hermione's legs carrying her as quickly as they could go, before Ron spoke.

"Okay, that wasn't so bad, was it? I really couldn't care less about house points-"

"It has nothing to do with house points," Hermione snapped back. "Didn't you see how disappointed she was? The only reason she didn't do more to us is because she didn't want to call attention to it. She thinks we're completely irresponsible."

"All we did was go to the village for a few hours."

"She tried to have a meeting with me and I wasn't here! I'm Head Girl! She's supposed to be able to count on me!" Stopping in her tracks, she whirled around to face him. "You've never cared about these things, have you? It actually means something to me, being back here and being Head Girl."

"I only wanted to spend time with you - you even said yourself, it's not the same being back here." He raked a hand through his messy hair. "Would you even be getting mad at me if we hadn't gotten caught?"

She didn't want to admit it, but the answer was no. If things had gone to plan, she would probably still be caught up in a giddy afterglow of her morning with him.

"It was just a bit of a wake up call," Hermione explained, starting to walk a bit more slowly now. "I have to take this seriously."

"And you do," said Ron as he fell into step beside her. "We all know that, and so does McGonagall."

"I just need to sort out my priorities. And of course you are one," Hermione was quick to say, "but I've got to be a better role model."

•••

"Stop apologizing," Hermione said to Harry for the tenth time over breakfast the next day. "It was just bad timing on when we sent the Patronus, it's not your fault."

"I should have at least thought up an excuse," said Harry, narrowly dodging a cut to the face as Ginny turned the pages of the Daily Prophet.

"Yeah, and I've heard your excuses, mate," Ron laughed. "You once tried to tell Snape that Roonil Wazlib was your nickname."

"Hey, it could have been," Harry joked back. "I still feel bad, we should have figured out a more discreet way to communicate."

"Now we know for next time."

"There won't be a next time," Hermione reminded him just as Ginny choked on a sip of tea.

"You all right?" Harry asked, thumping her on the back. Still sputtering a bit, Ginny folded the newspaper in half and handed it to Hermione, pointing to a segment titled _Spellbinding Sightings_.

_Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger were spotted Saturday at the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade, where they dined and made use of the rooms for rent upstairs. "They were gone for a good few hours," said a witness in the pub. Things seem to be heating up for Potter's pals, but will it last? Only time will tell._

There followed a few similar blurbs, including one about Celestina Warbeck shopping for new robes, but the words swam together before Hermione's eyes. How could they have thought nobody would notice them? Ron's height and hair color meant he was easily spotted in a crowd, and the pub hadn't been busy that morning.

"My parents get this paper delivered," Ron moaned, dropping his face onto his forearms.

"Then I reckon we can all look forward to a Howler tomorrow," Harry remarked, smirking from behind his goblet.

"Ugh, don't say that." Ron picked up his head and grimaced at Harry. "They're going to try to give me a sex talk via Howler, aren't they?"

"Probably," said Ginny. "Though you've already moved out, you'd think they'd realize that ship had sailed."

"They live in denial," Ron muttered. "And yeah, I have moved out, we're eighteen, we should be allowed to-" He paused and looked over at Hermione, who was still staring, white-faced, at the paper. "You okay?"

"I suppose I should take this to McGonagall," Hermione decided, "before she finds out from someone else."

But in the end, it didn't matter: word was already spreading throughout the student body and by lunchtime, it seemed that almost everyone had made the connection between the blurb in the paper and the sudden dearth of rubies in the Gryffindor hourglass. Everywhere Hermione went - the Great Hall, the library, to the Quidditch pitch to watch her friends practice - she felt judging stares and heard furtive whispers from her classmates. It was little comfort that most people still didn't know how they'd managed to leave the castle, because everyone was more concerned with what had happened while they were away.

The most frustrating part of all of it was that deep down, Hermione agreed with Ron. They were adults, and if they wanted a physical relationship, they should have been at liberty to carry one out in peace. She didn't think it was anything shameful, but she did like to keep this aspect of her life between herself and Ron, and suddenly it had been splashed into the news for the whole world to know.

"Do you want to go to dinner soon?" asked Ginny, toweling off her hair as she walked into their dorm. While she, Ron and Harry had gone to clean up after practice, Hermione had opted to hide out in the safety of her four-poster with a book. "I'm starving."

"So everyone can stare at me and call me a slag? No thanks," said Hermione flatly.

"If having sex with your boyfriend makes you a slag, then sign me up, I'm a slag too," Ginny replied casually as she sat on her own bed. "But even if you were putting it around all over town, who cares? It's your business."

"Yes, exactly. _My_ business. Not anyone else's." Hermione tugged at a loose thread in the duvet. "Do you really think your Mum will send Ron a Howler?"

"Hopefully not. A lecture isn't going to change anything."

"I'm just glad my parents don't have access to the Prophet," Hermione admitted. "I don't think they know that Ron and I are… you know."

"Shagging?" Ginny supplied with a smirk. "I'm embarrassed by nothing, you must have realized this by now."

"I spent the whole summer sneaking out of the house," Hermione continued, trying and failing to quell the blush in her cheeks. "Ever since Australia, they've been really protective, I had to convince them that coming back to Hogwarts wasn't a mistake."

"I think your secret's safe from Muggles," said Ginny. "And if you want, I can start a rumor about myself to distract everyone."

"No, I'm sure it'll blow over in a few days but I feel like nobody's going to take me seriously now."

"Then they're idiots," Ginny stated definitively. "Now let's go eat, they're probably waiting for us."

"You go," said Hermione. "I'm really not hungry."

Ginny, for a moment, seemed to consider arguing, but instead gave a slight shrug, picking up her wand as she walked out the door. Hermione laid back on the bed, staring at the crimson curtains hanging around her. She had been hoping, at the beginning of the month, that this year at Hogwarts could be blissfully uneventful, that she could concentrate on NEWTs and her friends and her relationship with Ron, but now she felt naive for ever believing that. Nothing could ever be that easy.

"Erm, Hermione?" Ginny had returned to stand in the doorway. "Ron would like me to ask you to please come down to the common room, since he can't come up here himself."

With a gargantuan effort, Hermione hauled herself up off the bed. The past two days had been nothing but exhausting, and she mostly just wanted to see the weekend end as quickly as possible. Ginny abandoned her halfway down the stairs, which didn't totally surprise her, and the common room was empty of all inhabitants but Ron, who stood expectantly near an armchair.

"Are you mad at me?" he asked, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "I'd understand if you were, this whole thing is basically my fault."

"No, I'm not." Hermione took the few steps needed to reach him and curved her arms around his waist, resting her head on his chest. "And anyway, you didn't exactly twist my arm."

"It was a stupid idea, I should have known something like this would happen," he went on, "but I really just wanted to do something more than just, I don't know, nick you a cupcake from the kitchen or something."

"It wasn't stupid. Before it all went sideways, it was actually a really great day."

"Yeah," Ron agreed with a soft smile. "It was. And it'll be fine, everyone'll forget about it in a couple of days."

"We'll see about that."

"They will. And if they don't, Harry offered to do something stupid to distract everyone."

"Ginny said the same thing!" Hermione laughed, angling her face up to lightly kiss his lips.

"Now can we eat, please? Because I'm starving."

Smiling wide, she just kissed him again.

•••

Pigwidgeon, through no fault of his own and by no means a result of any lack of enthusiasm, was almost always the last owl to deliver mail in the mornings. He typically fluttered in toward the end of breakfast, depositing tiny feathers onto everyone's plates and twittering eagerly around the heads of students until Ron snatched him out of the air and retrieved whatever letter or parcel he was bearing.

"I wonder if I'll get any hate mail this time," Hermione muttered to no one in particular as the owls swooped over the tables in the Great Hall.

"Why would you get hate mail?" asked Ron, biting into his toast.

"Don't you remember when Rita Skeeter wrote about how I was toying with Harry's emotions?"

"Yeah, but that's the difference, isn't it?" Ron replied, an air of sage wisdom in his voice. "That was Harry. I haven't really got a fan club like he has."

Not that Hermione thought Ron was wrong, necessarily, because even now Harry was the one who drew most of the attention whenever they all went out into the wizarding world. Her expectation had less to do with who she had been with at the Three Broomsticks and more that she had been there at all. After experiencing all of the taunting stares and whispers of her classmates over the weekend, it would hardly surprise her to be judged and vilified by complete strangers.

"Let them try," Ginny added from across the table. "I've been looking for an excuse to Bat-Bogey Hex someone, it's been a while."

But no anonymous letters arrived for Hermione, thankfully, and breakfast was dwindling to a close when Pigwidgeon tumbled through the air, his tiny wings fighting to keep him airborne. In his beak was clamped a roll of crumpled parchment as he landed with a thump on Ron's empty plate.

"Merlin, Pig, get it together," Ron chided him, picking up his owl and brushing bread crumbs from his feathers. As Hermione gathered up her things for Arithmancy, Ron tugged the parchment from the owl's beak, unfurled it, and began to read.

"What is that?" Hermione asked him, watching his eyes widen as he read, his brows quirking.

"It's from George." Ron did a double-take on the parchment.

"George?"

"Yeah, I reckon he thinks he's funny," Ron replied, cramming the letter into his rucksack. "He thinks it's his job to take the mickey just because we made the news."

"That's really why he wrote you?" It seemed a bit of a waste to send poor Pigwidgeon, who was really only reliable for local trips, without any real purpose to the letter.

"Yep." Ron stood and slung his bag over his shoulder. "Anyway, love, I've got to run back to my room real quick, I'll see you in class later, all right?" He stooped down just low enough to peck her on the lips and strode off, leaving Hermione to watch him go.

* * *

 

_Thanks for reading! Please review :)_


	6. Focus

"Okay, so we have…" Hermione placed a teetering stack of books on the table in front of Ron. "Potions, Herbology, and Transfiguration. So where do you want to start?"

He looked across the common room at the crackling fireplace, in front of which Ginny and Harry sat on the floor, drawing diagrams of Quidditch strategies, and then back into Hermione's hopeful brown eyes.

"You know what, you choose," he said as though he were doing her a grand favor. "It's all just so thrilling, I don't know where to begin."

Hermione could not honestly say she was appreciating his sarcasm, but opted to remain calm.

"We have three exams this week, so which do you feel like you need to study the most?"

As September had bled into October, coursework had seemed almost to triple. The professors of Hogwarts had embraced the spirit of NEWTs and felt it necessary to issue exams and essays with almost alarming frequency; equally alarming was the nonchalance with which Ron and Harry seemed to approach each deadline or exam date, as though they were mere suggestions. Hermione, who wanted nothing less than to see them fail, had taken it upon herself, like she had in years past, to ensure that they put in the appropriate effort.

"Tell you what," Ron replied, leaning over the table with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. "My dorm room's empty at the moment, what do you say we go up there for a little bit? Then I'll do all the studying you want."

"Really? Where's Dean?"

"Er, he snuck into Hogsmeade to see Seamus," Ron grinned. "So I know he's going to be a while."

"What do you mean, he went to Hogsmeade? How did he sneak in?"

"Same way we did."

Hermione was aghast, her jaw hanging slack as Ron bit back a laugh. "You told him?!"

"I mean, yeah, he asked, so… he's in a shittier situation than we are, because Seamus isn't even here, so I thought I'd help him out. And they're going to Apparate back to Myrtle's bathroom, not to the middle of the common room so I don't reckon they'll get caught. But that's completely off the point," he told her, covering her hands with his. "The point is that we'd have the place to ourselves, and… and it's been since your birthday…"

"And whose fault is that?" Hermione countered. Between classes, Head Girl responsibilities, and Quidditch, it was admittedly difficult to find significant blocks of time to spend together, but Hermione had suggested more than once that they take a trip to the Room of Requirement only to find that her idea was met with an excuse. She would have begun to take it personally had he not constantly been suggesting that they meet up in the prefect's bathroom, but she still felt the risk of Moaning Myrtle encountering them was far too great.

"Ginny's," Ron decided with a split-second glare in his sister's direction. "She's like Angelina Johnson and Oliver Wood combined, it's mental."

"So let me make sure I understand," said Hermione. "Are you trying to get me to bribe you with-" she lowered her voice- "with sex - so that you'll study?"

"Is it working?"

Hermione let out a frustrated sigh. "Let's start with Potions."

"Okay, but this is a waste of a perfectly good empty dorm room."

"Here's an idea," said Hermione, leaning in so Ron could hear her near-whisper. "We study for the next few hours and then we can spend the entire night in the Room of Requirement."

"Well…" Ron looked torn. "I don't know if we can do that. What if there's some kind of emergency and McGonagall can't find you?"

"Fair point," Hermione begrudgingly agreed. "Though I suppose there's always the risk of that happening."

"S'alright." Ron closed the gap between them to place a warm kiss on her lips. "I probably should study anyway."

"Right." Hermione nodded, accepting one more kiss from Ron before he picked up _Standard Book of Spells, Grade 7_ and cracked it open.

Perhaps he was right, and she really couldn't spend an entire night away from her dorm, but lately all she wanted was to fall asleep with him and wake up with him the way she'd done so many times over the summer. Everything back then had seemed so easy, so natural. True, there had been a fair bit of sneaking around due to Hermione still living with her parents, but once they were together it all seemed to fall away. They used to lie in his bed and talk and kiss and joke with each other and it was like they were the only two people in the whole world. Hermione missed that feeling; she didn't think she could wait until Christmas to have it again.

Halfway through their reluctant study of Concealment Charms ("didn't we just spend a whole year practicing these?" was Ron's constant refrain), Dean stomped into the common room looking rather ill-tempered and proceeded up to the boys' dormitory without a word to anyone.

"There goes that idea," said Ron as he shuffled Hermione's notes.

"My other offer still stands."

"I know, but…" Ron stood halfway out of his chair and kissed her cheek. "It's okay. We'll find a way."

Hermione nearly retorted that they already had a way - the castle had literally given them a way - but instead she simply turned to her Herbology notes.

The study of magical plants and fungi, however, very quickly lost its appeal.

"Do you want to play chess?" asked Ron, using a scrap of parchment to mark his place in his book as he closed it.

"No," Hermione replied, scowling at him. "You haven't even started that essay, have you?"

"I just have a hard time seeing how knowing how to open a Snargaluff pod will be useful as an Auror."

"Because the Ministry requires a NEWT in Herbology to enter the program, perhaps?"

"I know, but I need a break. Oi, Harry!" he called across the room to his friend, who had also been coerced into studying by his own girlfriend. "Play chess with me."

"Yeah, alright," Harry readily agreed. As Hermione's mouth slowly set itself into a very small, thin, straight line, Ron rushed off to the staircase. The depths to which the pair of them would sink in order to procrastinate were truly beyond her comprehension.

"You know, I think I'll just go to bed," Hermione decided, gathering up her books and notes as Ron descended the stairs. He stopped and turned, making a detour on his approach to Harry.

"Really?" asked Ron as Hermione stood up. "But it's still early." Setting his battered old chess set on the table, he draped an arm over her shoulders.

"It's clear nothing else is getting done tonight."

"Aww, c'mon, don't be mad at me," said Ron, wrapping another arm across her chest and planting a kiss on her forehead.

"I just actually want to get things done tonight," she told him, "and I'm not going to be able to do that down here."

"All right, well…" He kissed her temple, letting his mouth linger against her skin. "I love you."

Hermione turned her face so their lips could meet. "I love you too. And tomorrow we're finishing Herbology."

"You got it."

•••

The following morning brought Potions class, during which Hermione was paired with Harry to brew a Wound-Sanitizing Potion. Amid the sound of bubbling cauldrons and knives slicing through leeches, Hermione subtly adjusted her stance so that her back was to Ron, who had been partnered with his sister.

"So," Hermione began under her breath as she bisected a leech, "have you and Ginny gone to the Room of Requirement this year at all?"

"Er…" Harry gave a nervous little laugh. "Who's really asking, you or Ron?"

"I am," said Hermione with a weary roll of her eyes. "But Ron's not naive, you know."

"Well, I mean…" Harry looked over at Ginny, who was currently scraping pulverized dirigible plums into her and Ron's cauldron. "Yeah. We have - I mean, we've got to make the best of being here, right, so - I mean, why do you ask?"

"And how did it go?"

Harry crinkled his nose, looking deeply disturbed. "Again, why are you asking?"

"The room worked, didn't it? Even after the Fiendfyre and everything?"

"Oh." Harry's face relaxed into relief. "Yeah, it works. I reckon the the stuff from the Room of Hidden Things is all destroyed for good, but it can still… do what you need it to do."

"That's good."

"Did it not work for you and Ron?" Harry asked casually as he picked up a pestle.

"Oh - well - we haven't tried it yet." Hermione concentrated very closely on the incision she was making in her leech. "Harry, check that the water's still boiling, will you?"

Seeming to detect (accurately) that Hermione was ready to drop the subject, Harry peered into the cauldron and nodded. "Yeah, good to go."

Following Potions came Herbology, during which Ron turned in the feeble attempt at an essay that he had scratched out over breakfast. The lesson that day was focused on repotting Devil's Snare, which meant that most of their time went into ensuring that the plants didn't strangle them alive. Hermione watched, riveted, as Ron forced the twisting green roots back into pots of soil, unable to help noticing the way his muscles flexed under his robes, the small bead of sweat that developed on his temple, his teeth digging into his lower lip…

"Hi," Hermione greeted him brightly as they walked back to the castle, slipping her hand into his and kissing him behind the ear.

"Hi," he grinned back.

"Let's skip lunch today," she suggested, a shy smile forcing its way onto her lips.

His brows shot up. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Ron waited just long enough to give a quick warning to Harry and Dean and then, while the rest of their classmates filed into the Great Hall, he took Hermione's hand and led her eagerly up to the seventh floor.

"We've all come up with a system, too," Ron explained as they walked to the eighth year dorm, "since I realized I really, really didn't want to risk walking in on Harry and Ginny, so…" He took out his wand and marked a small, glowing-red X on the wooden door, just above the handle. "Then when the coast is clear, we just undo the spell. Simple, but effective."

Hermione kissed him the second the door closed behind them, walking him to the bed as she pushed away the outer layer of his robes. She was half-expecting a playful remark about her sense of urgency, but it seemed he was feeling exactly the same way: he crawled onto the bed and pulled her into his lap, yanking the curtains closed so they were surrounded by crimson. Articles of clothing were stripped off one by one, shoved into corners of the bedclothes or dropped to the floor until they both found themselves completely bare and breathless.

"C'mere," Ron breathed, situating himself against the headboard of the bed and guiding Hermione by the hips to straddle him. She settled onto his thighs as his lips fell to the curve of her neck. "I love you," he mumbled into her skin, sliding his hand up her waist.

"I love you too."

Hermione rose up on her knees just enough to position herself over him. Their eyes connected, and an unspoken agreement passed between them in the instant before Hermione sank down onto his length, bringing him inside. As her body adjusted to him - it had been nearly a month, after all - she connected their lips, savoring the utter closeness of their bodies. With Ron gripping her hip tightly in one hand, she began to rock against him, eliciting low, ragged moans from the back of his throat. He was trying to kiss every possible inch of her, her shoulders and her cheeks and her lips; one hand crept to the point where their bodies joined and the other sought out her breast. By the end they were sticky and sweaty and trembling, satisfied and exhausted.

"Am I really expected to go to class after this?" asked Ron, pulling the duvet over them. There was still a bit of time before they absolutely needed to leave and Hermione wanted to soak up every second of it, even if the twin bed could barely contain the two of them.

"We can't skip class." Even as she spoke, Hermione made herself comfortable, curling into his side.

"But how am I supposed to go to class when I have naked Hermione?"

"Well," laughed Hermione, "I'm going to class regardless, so you'd really just be naked by yourself once I left."

"Oh. Yeah. That's not as fun."

"And we have an exam, we can't miss it."

"It's on things we already know how to do. I'm pretty sure we already took the real life practical exam on Concealment Charms when we were on the run for a year."

"It doesn't matter, we still have to take the exam."

Ron fell quiet, dropping a kiss on her forehead and trailing his fingertips up her back. Hermione closed her eyes and let herself listen to the sound of his breathing. With the room so quiet and still, she could almost pretend that they were elsewhere, that they had more than a few stolen moments to share together.

"Hermione?"

"Hmm?"

"What if I hadn't come back? To Hogwarts, I mean." He almost sounded nervous voicing the question. "If Kingsley's bill had passed, or I'd… done something else… d'you think we'd be okay? You and me?"

"Of course we would." Hermione looked up at him, bemused. "Why wouldn't we be?"

"I would miss the hell out of you," he stated plainly. "It would be so hard not seeing you, or talking to you-"

"It would, but it would also take a lot more than that for you to get rid of me," Hermione told him, trying to infuse a bit of lightness in what was suddenly a very serious conversation.

"Believe me, I don't ever want to be rid of you." He tightened his embrace just as, from the nightstand, Hermione's wand let out a noise like a bell. "Do we really have to go?"

"Yes," said Hermione, a bit ruefully as she slid out of the bed and sought out her clothing. "We can't be late for an exam."

They dressed, Hermione unable to help noticing that Ron seemed to be taking his sweet time. She was just about to pick up her rucksack when he hugged her from behind, planting smacking, playful kisses on her neck and making goosebumps pop up on her skin.

"Let's never wait that long again," he said into her ear as more chills raced through her.

"Definitely." She turned and pushed her lips against his. "Now let's _go_ before we really do make ourselves late."

"Yeah, all right," said Ron as he allowed himself to be led out of the room. "But it would be totally worth it."

•••

There were times - and they often arose at moments like this, when Hermione was a unique mixture of exhausted and contented - that the absolute truths and details of her life came into very sharp focus. It was an unremarkable moment, really: she was simply sitting on the common room sofa with Ron, his arm around her shoulders as she leaned against him, her Arithmancy charts propped up on her knees. She should have been studying, rather than listening to Ron and Harry squabble over some Chudley Cannons trivia that one of them was misremembering, but she felt as though she was seeing everything so clearly.

She was a witch. She was here, at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, after having helped her friend defeat the darkest wizard in existence. The fact that any of it had happened at all - her magic, the fact that she actually had friends, which had been a near-impossibility in Muggle primary school - was enough in itself to marvel at, but the true wonder was right next to her, all red hair and long limbs and oversized smiles.

Ten years ago, she'd never have expected any of this, from the existence of this magical community to the fact that she had fallen so deeply, irreversibly in love with her best friend, and that he actually reciprocated it. Sometimes when she kissed him, or was affectionate with him, she couldn't believe that it was all real, that what she had craved for years had finally come to fruition. It was terribly illogical, she knew: he told her he loved her all the time, he'd seen her naked, they'd had sex countless times, but she still couldn't believe that she was now allowed to act on the desires she had harbored for years.

"No, that was the year Gorgovitch was traded to Wimbourne," Ron was saying, "not that it made a difference to the Cannons, anyway. I swear someone must have cursed the team."

"Who would curse a sports team?" Harry asked skeptically. "Maybe they're just rubbish, have you considered that?"

"I know they're rubbish, but it could be because of a curse, it might not be their fault."

"Yeah," Harry scoffed. "Maybe."

Hermione set her hand on Ron's leg and squeezed just enough so that he turned to look at her, and then lifted her face expectantly toward him. He met her halfway, landing a short, sweet kiss on her lips. Those little things, the fact that she didn't even need words to communicate what she wanted, and that kissing him was a normal, everyday event and would be for years to come, were what she marveled at the most. Sometimes this life of hers was entirely unfathomable in the best way.

"One more," she murmured, and he kissed her again before she rested her head back on his shoulder.

Ginny came bounding into the common room then, freshly showered after having led a grueling practice, and joined Harry in an overstuffed armchair.

"I had an idea when we were taking that Charms exam," Ron said quietly. "So I reckon some good came from it."

"You mean aside from you not failing your classes?"

"Okay, that, but also… I had the thought that if I put an Imperturbable Charm on my bed, you could potentially stay the night and nobody would know."

" _Ron_."

"What?"

"I am not… _doing_ anything with Harry and Dean in the same room!"

"Look whose mind is in the gutter," Ron teased her. "I just meant to sleep."

"If it's really just to sleep, then why would you need a charm?"

"Because, like I've said, you snore like a troll."

Hermione sat up straight, appalled, Ron's arm falling from her shoulders. "I do not!"

"Yes, you do - oi, Ginny," Ron called to his sister. "You'd know. Doesn't Hermione snore?"

"Oh, I'm not getting in the middle of this argument," said Ginny, which only made Ron burst out laughing.

"That's a polite way of saying yes, isn't it?"

"Hermione," Harry chimed in, "I hate to tell you this, but I shared a tent with you for months. You do snore."

Ron raised a fist in triumph as Hermione scowled and pointedly scooted away from him. "Hey, come back here," he chuckled, trying to hug her back into his arms. "I like it, it's rhythmic, it lulls me to sleep."

"So glad I can be of service, then," snapped Hermione, relocating to the other end of the sofa and hiding her face behind her notes.

"Hermione…" Ron crawled across the sofa toward her. "Come on, I bet I do annoying things in my sleep."

The thing was, he didn't. He didn't hog the covers or take up the entire mattress, he just held her close and kept her warm and made her feel like it was the safest place in the world, his bed at Grimmauld Place.

"Oh, it's annoying now, is it?" Hermione challenged, using all of her strength to suppress a smirk. She was no longer mad at him; truthfully, she never really had been, but watching him grow flustered over something so trivial had her rather entertained.

"What? No!" Ron's eyes widened into saucers. "No, I was only saying that, just, y'know, I - I love you," he changed tacks, hugging her around the shoulders.

"Even though I snore like a troll?"

"Thank you for never comparing me to a troll," Ginny commented as an aside to Harry, who laughed and kissed the side of her head.

"I was only joking, Hermione," Ron insisted, "I really only meant-"

She cut him off with a kiss, stunning him into silence. "I love you too," she told him, going back to leaning against him. "But," she added, quietly enough that Harry and Ginny couldn't hear, "I can't stay over with you, it's the same thing you said before. If there's an emergency or something happens, McGonagall has to be able to find me."

"Really regretting pointing that out to you," Ron muttered with a sigh. "But that's okay. Only two months until the Christmas holidays, right?"

"Yes, I suppose you're right."

At least, Hermione thought, she could still kiss him whenever she wanted. For the time being, she would have to be content with that.

* * *

 

_Thanks for reading! Please review :)_


	7. Quidditch

Hermione did not have to look at a calendar to know that the first Quidditch match of the year was approaching: approximately one week before, her core group of friends all found themselves deeply rooted in pre-match anxiety. Ron had always been particularly susceptible to the exorbitant amount of pressure that was placed on the student athletes, and he was constantly queasy, playing with his food at mealtimes and darting into the bathroom between classes. Ginny, as Captain, was relentless, holding practice late into the night and constantly drilling her team on plays and moves and strategies. On the Friday night before the match, Harry very casually suggested they perform wellness checks on Angelina Johnson and Oliver Wood, because Ginny seemed to have channeled their spirits as Captain.

Ron did not seem capable of joining in on the joke, however. The four of them were gathered in the eighth year boys dorm room (Dean had once again borrowed Kreacher to sneak out of the castle), Harry picking at the remains of a treacle tart that he had procured from the kitchens. The common room, they had quickly realized, was unpleasantly full of younger students clamoring around trying to hound the team.

“So Harry,” Ginny went on, slapping his knee to get his attention, “I really think the Wronski Feint is your best move against Astoria Greengrass, she's got a decent broom but she's just not as good a flyer as you, she’ll never recover-”

“Agreed,” Harry nodded with the patient air of a man uninterested in irritating his girlfriend. “Absolutely. Will do.”

Hermione shifted around on Ron's bed so she sat against the headboard, her legs bent, feet flat against the mattress. Ron, somehow, had managed to lie down on the narrow bed, his head near Hermione's hips. His face was pale, his expression vacant, as he listened to his sister continue on about the upcoming match.

“Are you all right?” she asked quietly, brushing his hair away from his forehead. Nodding, he tried to smile, but it was more of a grimace than anything. “Maybe… it might help you relax if we, erm… went somewhere private together?” Hermione suggested, letting her fingers comb idly through his locks.

To her surprise, his lips pressed together so tightly they lost all color. “I would love to, believe me,” he stated, voice clipped and bitter, “but I can't. Our lovely team captain has forbidden it.”

“That's right,” Ginny piped up from her seat on Harry's bed, evidently having overheard their discussion. “You can do anything you want after the match is over.”

“My little sister is dictating my sex life,” Ron grumbled. “Just kill me now.”

“Well, then,” Hermione decided, trying to put a positive spin on this turn of events, “we’ll just wait until after the match. To celebrate.”

“Or commiserate.”

“Stop thinking like that!” Ginny admonished him. “You can't go into the match with that kind of negativity, I've seen what it does to you-”

“Stop listening in on my conversation!” Ron shot back, lifting his head off the pillow so he could properly glare at her.

“It's nearly ten anyway, we should all be going to bed,” said Ginny. “I want the two of you down at breakfast at eight tomorrow morning and you need to be well-rested.”

Deeming it unwise to do anything but go along with Ginny, Hermione crawled off the bed and stood beside it, bending over to kiss Ron goodnight.

“Stay,” he beseeched her, placing a hand on the back of her thigh.

“I can't, I'm at her mercy too,” Hermione said with a wave in Ginny's direction. She gave Ron one more kiss. “I'll see you in the morning.”

It was, Hermione had always thought, absolute madness that each House team only played three matches each year. It placed an exorbitant amount of pressure on the athletes, it left no room for mistakes, it meant that every single match had to be played as though it were for the championship. Every goal mattered, every point mattered, and one would have thought it were a question of life or death with the weight the matches seemed to carry.

Ron spent most of breakfast carefully mashing the food on his plate into an indistinguishable mess, his hands shaky. _Why do you do this to yourself?_ Hermione wanted to ask. _How are you able to face Lord Voldemort when he's flaunting the seemingly-dead body of your best friend but not the Slytherin Quidditch team?_

“Eat something,” Ginny snapped to him, shoving a small plate bearing dry toast at her brother. “Otherwise your reflexes will be slowed down and you need all the reflexes you can get.”

“Do you genuinely think that’s helpful?” Hermione replied before she could help it, glowering at Ginny. The last thing Ron needed was any kind of negativity, though Hermione privately agreed that no harm could come from him actually keeping his food down.

“Yes, I actually do,” replied Ginny. “It’s Quidditch, Hermione, you wouldn’t understand.”

Hermione opened her mouth to retort, ready to say that she may not understand Quidditch, but she understood Ron, but a large hand squeezing on her leg stopped her.

“I’m going to change,” said Ron, standing up from the table. “I’ll see you lot there.”

The remaining hour between breakfast and the match seemed to drag on for days, with Hermione finding herself anxious and stressed on Ron’s behalf. All she wanted was for him to find the confidence that she knew he had somewhere inside himself. When he believed he could fly well, when he felt worthy of being on the team, when he did not automatically expect failure from himself, he was actually pretty unstoppable. Except - and the thought made a stone drop into her stomach - thanks to her impulsive interference two years ago, he probably didn’t feel worthy, did he? He was always so inclined to default to the negative when it came to his own abilities that he probably suspected that Ginny put him on the team out of some favor to Harry, or that Hermione had covertly confunded another team hopeful. Between all of that and Ginny’s ‘win or die trying’ attitude, there was not exactly a recipe for Ron’s success in place.

Against her better judgment, she made her way to the pitch, but rather than head into the stands with Luna, she crept around the back of the stadium to the entrance to the changing rooms. It only took a few quick spells to magick open the door, and she slipped inside to join the team.

“Er - Hermione?” Harry, the first to notice her, paused in the midst of doing up his robes. “You’re not supposed to be in here-”

“I know that.” She crossed the small room to approach Ron, who was tossing a practice Quaffle from hand to hand.

“What are you doing?” he asked, perplexed as she sat down on the bench beside him.

“I just wanted to-” To do what, exactly? To remind him that one ultimately meaningless Quidditch game didn’t define him or his value? To remind him that she loved him no matter what, that it didn’t matter to her if he didn’t save a single goal? “To wish you luck,” she decided. She turned and hugged him, not particularly offended when he didn’t hug her back. “You’re going to be great.”

“Mhmm,” he replied absently. “Thanks.”

What he needed from her was positivity, so she kissed his cheek and gave his hand an affectionate squeeze. “I’m going to get a seat with Luna, I’ll see you after, okay?”

“Kay.” He seemed to have to force the syllable from his throat.

“Hermione, get out of here,” Ginny called from across the room, surprisingly looking moderately amused. “I have to talk to my team.”

Luna was not difficult to find in the stands, what with her lion headdress that she always wore whenever Gryffindor played anyone other than Ravenclaw, and Hermione joined her in the back row of the stadium. There had not been Quidditch last year, as the Carrows had outlawed anything even remotely resembling fun, so the stadium was practically shaking with excitement and energy. This, Hermione knew, essentially added a year’s worth of pressure to the match, and her stomach began to roil with her own nerves for Ron. Once again, she felt compelled to wonder why he put himself through this. He loved Quidditch, but it didn’t seem necessary to put himself through weeks of undue stress.

Fourteen players rose into the air, blurs of scarlet and gold, green and silver, and Ron took his place in front of the goalposts. He sat tall and confident on his broom, and Hermione smiled to herself, optimistic that her brief visit might have bolstered his spirits. As Slytherin’s Chaser flew toward him, dipping and diving around Ginny and Demelza, Hermione held her breath. _You've got this, Ron_ , she thought fiercely, hoping her faith in him could somehow be communicated across the pitch. _You can do this_.

Ron flew toward the Quaffle as it whizzed toward the leftmost goalpost, arm outstretched, only to have the ball just graze his fingertips as it soared through the hoop. Slytherin’s section of the stadium rejoiced, Gryffindor slumped in disappointment, and Ginny flew over to Ron. She spoke to him for only a moment, her ginger ponytail blowing in the autumn wind, but it made Hermione’s blood boil. What Ron needed was not to be berated and told off for his mistake: it could only cause more of them. Couldn't Ginny see that?

As play resumed, Harry brought his broom into a sharp nosedive, racing at breakneck speed to the ground and drawing gasps from the crowd. Just mere milliseconds before he would have crashed, he pulled up and spun around to see Slytherin's Seeker searching madly for what had caught his attention: she had chased eagerly after him, certain that he'd seen the Snitch. It was a distraction, Hermione realized, for the crowd more than anything, for all eyes were now on Harry rather than Ron.

The match wore on, minute by excruciating minute, and Hermione found herself robustly thankful that the Slytherins, for the time being, had not broken out into the original lyrics of ‘Weasley Is Our King’. For every goal that Ginny or another Gryffindor Chaser would score, Ron would allow one from Slytherin. Hermione knew him well enough to know he was growing frustrated, discouraged, hopeless. The Snitch remained ever-elusive despite Harry's efforts to locate it as quickly as possible and put an end to the match.

If Ron had only managed to save the first goal of the match, Hermione believed the entire event would have proceeded differently, but now he was of the mindset that he couldn't succeed, that he wouldn't, that any skill he had ever displayed was the result of magical interference or Harry capitalizing on the placebo effect. If he could get out of his own head and forget about the crowds just for a second, he could be a completely different athlete. As it was, Harry managed to salvage things by grabbing the Snitch as it fluttered just above the press box, allowing Gryffindor to win by fifty points.

The moment Madame Hooch’s whistle blew, Hermione scrambled out of the stands, desperate to see Ron before anyone else. His mistakes, now that Gryffindor had won, would be forgotten by all but the members of the team, but she still knew that he needed her. Buffeted by excited students, she hurried down to the pitch and made her way to the changing rooms.

Harry was first to emerge. “Thought you'd be out here,” he said when he saw her. “I'll go let him know.”

“Is he okay?”

Harry shrugged. “He's Ron, you know how he gets.”

Five minutes lapsed after Harry retreated back into the changing rooms, during which Hermione had plenty of time to realize that she had no idea what to say to him. In the past, he had always commiserated with Harry or by himself, but she wanted to be there for him now. The problem was finding the words. Everything she wanted to say, however sincere, ran the risk of sounding cliche or hollow.

Finally Ron surfaced, still in his Quidditch robes with sweaty hair, his face difficult to read.

“Please don't,” he said when he saw her, though he placed a hand on her shoulder to invite her to walk with him. “I know what you're going to say, you don't have to say it.”

“What do you think I’m going to say?”

“Just the usual stuff about how it wasn't as bad as I thought, and how Gryffindor still won, and how I'm actually _so good_ at Quidditch-” He stopped himself. “You don't have to say anything.”

The frosty grass crunched beneath their feet as they walked on, not speaking. “Well,” Hermione finally said, “I can think of a way to cheer you up.”

Ron glanced down at himself. “I haven't even taken a shower yet, I probably smell.”

“I don't mind,” said Hermione honestly. His sweat-damp hair reminded her of nights over the summer when they hadn't even slept, so consumed they had been with need for each other… and she'd always liked the smell of him anyway…

“I - yeah, okay,” Ron relented.

He wasn’t displaying the enthusiasm that he normally would at the prospect of these sorts of activities, but Hermione wasn't taking it personally. Once they were alone together, he would forget everything else. It was what happened to her, after all: she became so caught up in him that she practically forgot who she was.

“Wait, where are we going?” asked Ron as they arrived at the seventh floor. “The common room’s going to be so crowded.”

“You’ll see,” replied Hermione, coyly leading him past the painting of the Fat Lady and around the corner toward a long, seemingly empty stretch of wall. Ron’s footsteps slowed as they approached.

“Hermione…”

“Just wait a second,” she said, dropping his hand and pacing three times in front of the wall. A wooden door materialized and Hermione, excited, dragged Ron toward it by the wrist.

Inside, they found a small, scantly decorated bedroom, the queen-sized bed in the middle bearing a navy blue duvet and two pillows. The room, just as Hermione had asked, had created a perfect replica of Ron's bedroom at Grimmauld Place.

“Why'd you ask it to look like this?” Ron wondered, gazing around at his duplicated belongings.

“I just thought it'd be nice to be somewhere familiar,” she explained. “It’ll feel more like it did over the summer.”

“Right,” he nodded, swallowing. Was it Hermione's imagination, or did he actually look nervous? She really hoped the self-doubt from the events of the day wouldn't carry over into this aspect of their lives: he had nothing to be worried about.

She stepped toward him and wrapped her arms around his neck, reaching up to kiss him. A long breath escaped through his nostrils as their lips met, but his entire body still felt incredibly tense.

“Ron,” she mumbled between kisses - it seemed to she had to initiate every one - “I love you.”

He nodded against her mouth. “Love you.”

His hands were rigid on her waist, stiff and immobile as though they were two awkward teenagers dancing at the Yule Ball. Their lips were touching, her hands were in his hair but he seemed to be a million miles away. He just needed to relax, so Hermione walked him closer to the bed and moved her lips down to the column of his throat. Normally this evoked _something_ from him - a sigh, a moan, his hands gripping her more tightly - but he was like a statue, so she pulled away and sat down on the bed, beckoning for him to join her.

Raking his hands through his messy hair, Ron cringed and squeezed his eyes shut as though he were in physical pain. “Hermione… I can't be in here right now.”

“What?”

“I'm sorry,” he said, looking around helplessly. “I just, I can't be here right now, I'm sorry.”

Before she had the chance to say anything, he had fled from the room, the wooden door so like his at home shaking slightly from the force of his departure. Hermione sat, dumbfounded, in the falsified version of the room in which she had spent so many nights with him, and tried to make sense of the day’s events.

When she had found she could no longer bear ruminating over it, she proceeded back to the Gryffindor common room. It was in absolute disarray, as was to be expected after a victory, with drinks and trays of food scattered everywhere and loud, raucous merriment. Ron was nowhere to be seen but Harry stood against the far wall, bottle of butterbeer in hand, watching Ginny celebrate her first victory as Captain. Hermione made a beeline over to him.

“Have you ever turned down sex?” she inquired. Harry froze, bottle of butterbeer halfway to his mouth.

“Excuse me?”

“Answer the question, Harry.”

“I-” He quickly scanned the party to make sure nobody was listening in. “Well, no, not to my recollection. I'm pretty sure my hair would have to actively be on fire or something,” he added with a chuckle. “Why do you ask?” He furrowed his brow at her. “Where's Ron?”

“He hasn't come through here?”

Harry shook his head and sipped from his bottle. “Haven't seen him, but I reckoned he was with you.”

“He was, but…” And Hermione briefly explained what had happened in the Room of Requirement. “You really haven't seen him at all?”

“No, but - Hermione, you know how he gets after these things when it doesn't go so well.”

“I just thought it would cheer him up,” she admitted. Harry laughed again.

“Yeah, it probably would have done. So are you saying the Room of Requirement is free right now?”

“Yes…”

“Good luck,” Harry concluded with a friendly pat to Hermione's shoulder before striding purposefully away.

Feeling no better than before their conversation, Hermione watched as Harry approached Ginny, spoke into her ear, and then led her out of the portrait hole. The party carried on without missing a beat and Hermione, hardly in the mood for any festivity, dragged herself up the stairs to the boys’ dormitory. Ron would have to come back eventually, and when he did, she would be waiting. His dorm room was empty so she removed her shoes and socks, tucking them under his bed, and crawled between the blankets. Never before had she fully appreciated how much she missed sleeping in a bed that smelled like him...

“Hi, there,” said Ron, standing over her with an affectionate smirk. Hermione’s eyes flew open - she hadn't meant to fall asleep - as he slipped into the bed beside her. “This is quite the surprise.”

“Oh, hi,” Hermione replied as Ron found her lips with his. “Are we alone in here?”

“Mhmm,” he said, kissing her again. “It's almost dinnertime.”

His mood seemed to have done a complete turnaround; maybe time was all he had needed.

“Did you put the X on the door?” she asked.

“Should I?”

Hermione nodded so Ron shoved back the blankets and jumped up, using his wand to quickly etch a warning into the door. He returned, shedding the outermost layer of his robes as he crawled over her.

It was as though the earlier scene in the Room of Requirement had never happened. There would be time to talk later; right now, all Hermione could think was how badly she wanted to be close to him, and the layers of clothing between them weren't allowing that to happen. Ron seemed just as eager to feel her skin and they wasted no time stripping off robes and uniforms and undergarments until not a shred of fabric remained. Their kisses were long, slow, deep; Ron ran a hand up her side and over her breast, lightly pinching her nipple. She shivered at his touch and arched her back into him as he slid his tongue along her lower lip. Hermione reached down between their sweaty, sticky bodies and stroked her hand up and down his length, positioning him between her thighs.

With an achingly soft kiss to her lips, Ron sank inside and began to undulate their hips together. Hermione, clamping her knees at his sides, released a quiet moan and used his shoulders to pull him closer.

“Go slow,” she whispered into his ear. Ron nodded and kissed her, languorously sliding in and out. She wanted the moment to last forever, to always be this connected to him, to feel like nothing else mattered or even existed. When they were together like this, her senses flooded with the sight of his vibrant hair and his voice in her ear, she could let go of everything and focus solely on him.

Ron finished inside her trembling, quaking body and immediately kissed her, though he was still out of breath. Hermione's entire body seemed to have melted: it was all she could do to kiss him back before he rolled off of her. With lazy, tingling fingers, Hermione turned onto her side and grazed her nails over his chest.

“Ooh, don't,” he laughed, shuddering at her touch. “That feels really good, I'm going to get… ideas.”

“You seem to be feeling better,” Hermione commented.

“Er, yeah, well - I mean, it always helps to find a gorgeous witch in your bed,” he teased her. “Kinda just needed time, I reckon.”

“I didn't mean to fall asleep, I just thought I'd wait for you.” Rolling onto her stomach, Hermione placed a kiss on his jaw. “I'm sorry about earlier.”

“It's all right,” he mumbled, pressing his lips to her shoulder and neck.

“No, I should've known you wouldn't want to go there so soon after the match.”

Ron’s lips left her skin with a jarring quickness; he studied her as though she had suddenly begun speaking French.

“What does the match have to do with it?”

“Well…” Hermione's mind was racing now; she felt as though things should have been clicking together that weren't. “I mean, you seemed upset, I should have known you'd need to cool down a bit before you were in the mood to-”

“Yeah, I played like shit, but that wasn't the problem.” He abruptly sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, retrieving his pants from the floor and pulling them on.

Stupefied, Hermione followed his lead and sought out her own underwear. So much for their blissed-out afterglow. “What was wrong, then?” she asked as she secured the clasp on her bra. “Was it something I did?”

Once again, Ron stared at her as though he couldn't comprehend her presence and yanked a white vest over his head. “You really don't have any idea? No guesses?”

“You don't have to be mean, Ron, maybe you could just tell me.”

“Well, it’s over now anyway, so let's just move on from it.” In a different context, Hermione might have found it comical how quickly he was dressing. “Let’s just go down to dinner or something.”

“No, I want to talk about this-”

“Fine, then I'm going.”

How was it possible, Hermione wondered as the door closed behind him, for him to be so open and vulnerable one minute and then completely closed off the next?

What didn't he want to talk about?

* * *

 

Thanks for reading! Please review - and I promise, lots of questions will be answered in the next chapter... 


	8. Decisions, Decisions

No good ever came from Quidditch, Hermione decided on Sunday morning. It was always putting Harry in the hospital wing or giving Ron anxiety or turning Ginny into an unrecognizable drill sergeant, and somehow it always caused a rift between Hermione and Ron. As a matter of fact, she could hardly recall a match in which something hadn't gone awry in some way.

And yet… it wasn't really about Quidditch at all, was it? That was what Ron had said, although it was evidently too easy and logical for him to share the actual problem. Instead, he did what he always had in the past: lashed out about trivial things, clammed up, avoided actually sharing how he felt. If he could just speak honestly with her, she knew they could resolve this, but she also knew she couldn't wheedle it out of him. He had to be ready on his own.

It was this thought that kept Hermione glued to her bed on Sunday morning. If Ron wasn't yet ready to talk to her, then she wasn't terribly keen on sitting at the Gryffindor table while Harry tried to mediate the awkward silence… and she was so, so sick of fighting. All she wanted was to just be happy with him.

In the bed next to Hermione, Ginny let out a groan of discomfort and sat up, her hair in disarray, eyes bloodshot.

“Celebrate a little too much last night?” Hermione asked knowingly.

Ginny hiccuped. “You could say that. But Madame Hooch told me after the match that there was a recruiter there from the Holyhead Harpies and she said that they were really impressed, so…” She flopped back onto the bed. “I'm paying for it now.”

“That's really exciting though, about the recruiter. Do you think you’ll play there next year?”

“With any luck, I'll make the reserves, at least.” Ginny made an attempt to sit up again, cradling her head in her hands. “Let’s go get breakfast, I bet Harry and Ron are downstairs already.”

“You go ahead, I'm… not really in the mood for it.”

“You're not in the mood for breakfast? I think a slice of toast would save my life right now.” Ginny gathered her hair into a thick ponytail at the back of her head and looked over at Hermione. “Do I dare ask?”

“I don't even really know what happened, let alone how to explain it, so don't bother.”

“Whose fault is it, yours or his?”

Hermione opened her mouth to reply, only to realize that she couldn't even answer, and closed it again without having uttered a word. Ginny cringed and climbed out of bed, staggering a bit as she walked to her trunk.

“That can't be good.” Her expression turned to sympathy. “I'll bring you back something.”

Such was the manner in which Hermione survived that Sunday, on the parcels of food brought back by Ginny at mealtimes. Hermione knew it was childish to hide from Ron in the one place in the castle he couldn't access on his own, but she just couldn't face the thought of trying, futilely, to decipher his cryptic barbs and moody silences. And she still couldn't understand what had made him so upset in the first place. She kept thinking back to the minutes they had spent together following the match, racking her brains to figure out just what had upset him, but she was at a loss. He had been so anxious in the Room of Requirement, and yet when they had reunited in his dorm, he showed no signs that anything was wrong. Maybe he really had just needed time, but maybe there was something else at play.

She was supposed to be the one who knew him best, who understood him, and yet this one answer remained elusive. If she didn't know what the problem was - if she didn't know how to solve it - then she couldn't face him. It was that simple. And so she ate the toast and sandwiches that Ginny brought to her, because she couldn't go down to the Great Hall and essentially tell her boyfriend, who she loved more than anyone, that she was failing at being a good partner. He deserved better.

Rather than deal with breakfast on Monday morning, Hermione decided to skip it altogether and simply go early to Ancient Runes. Odd though it was not to see Ron and kiss him good morning in the common room, she needed the solitude and the space. She needed a clear mind in order to think, to use logic and reason and facts to solve this. She couldn't allow herself to be distracted by his hair and his smile and his eyes anymore than she already would be, given that she shared five of her seven classes with him…

Except that when she arrived at Potions class, it was remarkably short on Weasleys. Harry and Ginny, dutifully assembling their cauldrons, simply shrugged at Hermione when she joined them at their usual table.

“Where is he?” Hermione hissed to them, hoping that if she kept her voice down about Ron's absence, Slughorn might not bother to notice. “Is he okay?”

“He was fine five minutes ago,” said Harry. “Well - I mean - he's not in the hospital wing or anything.”

“Hmm.”

Harry looked like he had more to say, but Professor Slughorn burst through the door just then and gleefully announced that he would be giving them a quiz on rare poison antidotes, and the class snapped to attention. As sheets of parchment were passed around, Hermione's heart began to race. Was Ron now avoiding her? Had he determined, after her day of solitude, that she didn't want to be around him? And that wouldn't even be true, really. She always wanted to see him, even when he was driving her up the wall, but right now she just couldn't.

The quiz was easy - Hermione knew it would be - and then she made it her goal to completely disregard Harry and Ginny as she worked diligently on a Pain-Relief Potion. It was, she thought as she bottled it up, something that would have come in handy for her at the moment: her head was beginning to pound from stress.

Herbology was no different, with the exception that the humidity and aromas from the greenhouses only served to exacerbate her headache so that by the time the lesson ended, she was not only annoyed with Ron's truancy but rendered incredibly grumpy.

“You go ahead,” Hermione said to Harry and Ginny when they suggested going to lunch. “I have something I need to do.”

So while they made their way to the Great Hall, Hermione hurried up to Gryffindor Tower. Ron was even less difficult to locate than anticipated: Hermione found him lounging on an armchair near the fire, lazily flipping through that month’s edition of the Quibbler.

“Hi,” he greeted her, casually waving a hand in her direction. “Did you know there's a rumor that Dumbledore was a time-traveler from the future? Mental, right?”

His cavalier attitude sent a quick jolt of fury through her body. “Do you realize you missed a quiz in Potions?”

“Did I?” he replied vacantly, wresting a pair of Spectrespecs from the magazine. “Damn.”

“Are you going to come to class this afternoon?”

“I'll consider it,” he said with such an air of disregard that Hermione wanted to snatch the Quibbler right out of his hands.

“Ron, you have to go to class.”

He tossed the magazine onto a table and stood. “Really? Because Slughorn grades on how much he likes you, not if your potion’s any good and considering he still barely knows who I am, I'm not sure there's any point.”

“And Herbology?” Hermione pressed on, folding her arms over her chest.

“It's Herbology,” he scoffed. “It's boring and it's easy and I don't really need it.”

“But you do need it!” Hermione cried. “It's all required for the Auror program, and - and why are you even here, then, if you're not going to take any of it seriously?”

“Why am I here?” he repeated as if incredulous that she didn't already know. “Hermione, do you think I'm happy to be back? Nothing about being back here feels right, not classes, not Quidditch - do you honestly think I _like_ being here, eating all my meals in the same room where they kept my brother’s body? Why would I ever want to go to the Room of Requirement when my brother was killed ten feet away from it?”

All the blood in Hermione's body seemed to leave her veins. She remembered it like it was yesterday, Fred joking with Percy, the explosion, Fred’s frozen laugh and the tear tracks in the soot on Ron's face. Of course it would be burned into Ron's brain too.

“I - I never thought - Ginny-”

“Ginny wasn't there!” Ron exclaimed, flinging his hands up in frustration. “She didn't see it, she doesn't know what it was like - every time I even look at that corridor, it's all I can think about.”

Hermione took a step toward him, at a loss for words. Every time she invited him to the Room of Requirement, she had to have been making him miserable, not to mention the time they'd actually gone. No wonder he'd fled.

“So why did you come back to school if you're so miserable here?”

“What else was I supposed to do?” Ron was trembling, his face brick red and anguished. “At the time I had two choices, either go back to Hogwarts or freeload off my best friend for the rest of my life. At least this way I’d get to see you.”

“But I thought you wanted to be an Auror.”

“All I wanted was to be happy - Harry hates it here too, but he’ll at least make it into the program, I don't even know if I will, and, and… I don't even know if that's what I want anymore.” Raking his fingers through his hair, he grabbed two fistfuls and let out a sharp breath. “I never told you, but - oh, hang on, you won't believe me otherwise.”

He turned on his heel and bolted up the staircase to his dorm, leaving Hermione to stare after him. Within seconds, his footsteps thundered down the staircase and he reappeared, holding out a piece of folded parchment to her. “Here,” he said anxiously. “Just read it, it explains it better than I can.”

Curious, Hermione opened up the parchment to find it filled with messy, uneven handwriting.

_Ron-_

_You owe me. I happened to come across that little tidbit about you and Granger in the Prophet (nicely done, by the way) and I decided to save you the trouble of hearing from Mum and Dad about it and so I “accidentally” set the thing on fire before they had a chance to read it. Better me than them, right? You want to be more careful, though. You keep forgetting you’re famous and for some reason, people are interested in what you do (or who, ha ha)._

_Anyway, the actual reason I’m writing you isn’t to take the piss. It’s starting to seem like time to reopen the shop, it’s just been stood there abandoned and getting dusty for months, and that's a huge waste. We didn't put in all that time for it to just close down after only two years. I'm going to need help, though, because someone will need to be down on the main floor with all the customers and someone will have to manage the books, orders with the apothecary, etc. I reckon that person should be you. I'll pay you, of course, it'd be a partnership (even though you totally owe me and I should make you work for free since I actually would have loved to see Mum send you a Howler about protecting Granger’s virtue or some nonsense)._

_Up to you. I know you’ll be doing the Auror thing at some point, which isn’t surprising but the shop can be good fun most days and it’s good money every day. I know you won’t believe me when I say this, but I think you’re the best man for the job. I also know that you’re going to write me back and ask if I’m fucking with you. I would never fuck with you. Okay, yeah, I would, but not about the shop. It’s up to you and I understand if you want to keep saving the world._

_Just let me know. And be more discreet with Granger, please, because Dad was all bummed out that he couldn’t do the crossword in the paper that day. You owe Dad a crossword puzzle._

_George_

Hermione finished reading and looked up at Ron, who had been watching her with bated breath. “He offered you a job? What did you tell him?”

“I told him no,” said Ron. “Obviously. I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“But why? If you’re really as unhappy here as you say and he’s offered you a way out-”

“Oh, really, Hermione, is that what you want?” he snarled. “A boyfriend who works in a joke shop?”

Hermione recoiled, stung by the implication. Did he really think she was that shallow? “That’s - that’s horrible to say, why would I want you to be unhappy?”

“Well, it really didn’t matter, did it, because I knew the second I read it that I had to stay here anyway-”

“But why?” Tears started to prick at the corner of her eyes. “If you hate it here so much and you have another choice, why would you stay?”

“Because of you!” he bellowed. His words seemed to bounce off the stone walls, echoing through Hermione's mind. “I’m staying here for you!”

“But I'm not asking you to stay!” Hermione shot back, allowing tears to spill down her cheeks. “If you want to go, then go! Don't do me any favors!”

“I can't!” he cried back, his voice strangled. “Don't you think I've thought about it, what it would be like to be away from you? Being here, it’s like… it’s been like going backwards. We lived on our own for so long, we had a whole summer to know what it felt like to be in control of our lives but we’re not anymore, not here - but I can’t stand the thought of not seeing you every day.”

“Don’t do that to yourself because of me.” Her voice was shaking with the effort of not breaking down entirely. They had been at Hogwarts nearly three months and he’d never voiced a word of any of this. “If - if you want to go, we’d be okay, don’t stay here for me.”

“But I can’t go.” He stated this as though it were absolute fact. “I’m not leaving you.”

“Ron-”

“I promised myself, Hermione,” he exclaimed frantically, “I promised myself I’d never leave you again!”

The words hung in the air, suspended by the tension of the fight and the recollection of the rainy night, a year ago, that she had begged him to stay, pleaded with him, and he had vanished anyway. What had ensued had been some of the worst weeks of Hermione’s short and unusual life and of course she didn’t want to relive it, but now everything had changed. The war had ended. The doubts and the insecurities and the dark magic that had driven him away had been eradicated, demolished by the sword of Gryffindor on the day after Christmas. For months afterward, Ron had tortured himself over it. Hermione had watched, from the confines of the tent, while he accepted every cutting remark she threw his way, how he never felt he deserved anything, not even his fair share of rubbery mushrooms. But there was no need for him to continue to punish himself, not when Harry and Hermione had forgiven him so long ago.

“You shouldn’t stay for me,” Hermione managed to mumble, watching him through blurry eyes. “Don’t do that to yourself, it isn’t worth it.”

“It’s worth it to me.”

“If you stay because of me, you’ll always regret it, you’ll resent me for it, and I won’t have that. I won’t let you make yourself unhappy because of me, I’m not worth that.”

Ron shook his head. “But you are what makes me happy-” The words died in his throat as he swiveled his head to the portrait hole, through which Harry was emerging with a roll of parchment in his hand.

“Sorry,” said Harry, glancing with mild concern at Hermione’s tear-glazed face. “I’m really sorry. But Ron, Kingsley’s just written us.” He rushed up to them and thrust the scroll at Ron’s chest. “Read it!”

“Er-” Hermione could tell Ron didn’t want to say it, but it was clear he could have hardly cared less about a letter from Kingsley Shacklebolt. “What does it say?”

“He’s presenting the bill to the Wizengamot again,” Harry declared in a rush of excitement, green eyes glowing. “And he wants us to testify before them, to explain why we feel we’re qualified to be Aurors right now and why we want to do it. He really thinks that if we tell them about what we’ve been through and how it prepared us, they’ll pass the law, but he needs an answer right away, it’s coming up in four weeks.”

“He… he wants both of us?” Ron asked, his attention switching back and forth between Harry and Hermione so rapidly that he might have been watching a tennis match. “Really?”

“Yes, the letter’s addressed to both of us. So… what do you say?”

* * *

 

_Thanks for reading! Please review :)_


	9. Define Happy

“Ron?” Harry took a tentative step toward him. “What do you want to do? We have to write back to Kingsley.”

Ron looked helplessly to Hermione, as though beseeching her to answer for him, but she could do no more than wipe the tears from her face.

If he spoke at the hearing, and the bill passed, he would have to join the Auror program, and therefore would leave Hogwarts. Hermione had to admit, if only to herself, that she too hated the thought of being apart. Selfishly, she loved having him here, she loved the quiet nights together in the common room and kisses before breakfast and the knowledge that if she needed him, he was never very far away. She would be losing all of that if he left… but then again, she could never ask him to stay, especially now that she knew how painful it was for him just to walk the halls every day.

But even if the bill didn't pass, there were still decisions to be made. If George's offer still stood, then Ron had another way out, though it would mean giving up on any option of ever being an Auror. And if he decided not to work for George, it meant six more months at a school where his only source of happiness was Hermione.

“Do we have to write back now?” Ron asked. “Don't you want to talk to Ginny?”

“She's already seen the letter, and anyway, what's there to talk about?” Harry looked over at Hermione, seeming to finally register her reddened, puffy eyes. “Why aren't you excited about this?”

Ron let out a long, slow breath. “I just need some air. I'll go to class,” he added to Hermione. “I just need air.”

He crossed the common room, pausing only to kiss Hermione on the forehead, and stepped out through the portrait hole. Hermione sank into a nearby chair and pinched the bridge of her nose, willing the whirring of her brain to just stop for once.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. All summer they had joked about finally having a quiet year at Hogwarts and how bizarre it would be. They had a plan: they would finish the school year, pass the relevant NEWT exams, and Ron would begin Auror training while Hermione joined the Ministry. It was supposed to be blissfully uncomplicated for once, but it wasn't working out that way. It was almost like after so many years of fear and struggles and pain, they didn't know how to just be happy.

“I’m sorry, Hermione,” said Harry into the stillness of the room. “I didn't mean to interrupt… whatever it was I interrupted.”

“Do you really think the bill will pass this time?” asked Hermione.

Harry walked further into the common room and perched on the arm of the sofa. “I don't know, but I have to do everything I can. Most days, I hate being here,” he admitted. “And the worst of it is that I used to love it here, but when I think of everything that happened here… and anyway, it feels pointless to sit in a classroom when I could be out actually doing something.”

“Sounds about right.” For as long as Hermione had known Harry, he had never opted for inaction.

“And I reckoned Ron felt that way too,” Harry added.

“I think he does, but… it's all just really complicated now.”

“Isn't it always,” Harry muttered. “Well, I've got to write back soon, so he's got to figure it out.”

“That's helpful,” Hermione said bitterly.

Harry stood, giving her a friendly pat on the back. “I'll see you in class.”

When Hermione finally forced herself out of the common room and made her way to Charms, she found Ron waiting outside the classroom door, wearing a sheepish expression as she approached.

“I figured you didn't have lunch,” he said, holding out a rather lumpy cloth napkin, “so I went down to the kitchen and got you a scone.”

“Thank you.”

“And…” Other students filed past on their way to class, but most seemed to disregard the couple entirely. “And I should have told you. About George, and - and all the other stuff - I never should have shut you out like that. I'm really sorry.”

“No, I'm the one who’s sorry,” said Hermione. “I should have realized what was bothering you, I don't know how I didn't figure it out sooner. I must be the worst girlfriend in the world.”

“Definitely not.” Ron slipped an arm behind her back and pulled her into a hug.

“We’re not done talking, though,” Hermione said with her face buried in his shoulder. It had barely been two days, but she had missed the comfort of his arms. What would it be like if he left?

“I know. I just don't want to fight anymore.”

Rising on tiptoe, Hermione brought her lips to his for a light kiss. “Neither do I.”

“Come on a walk with me tonight,” said Ron. “After dinner. Please?”

“But it's going to be freezing out-”

Ron cut her off with another, more firm kiss. “Good thing we can do magic, then.”

•••

The sun had already set by the time Ron and Hermione set out for the castle grounds, but with the strength of the warming charm Ron had cast, it may well have been a summer evening. Slowly, they ambled across the frosted grass, making their way to the beech tree under which they had spent so many spring afternoons in years past. The moon was a mere crescent in the sky, casting a silvery glow across the black lake.

“You're sure you're warm enough?” Ron asked, casting another charm over them.

“Yes, I'm fine.”

“And your head's feeling better?”

“Much better.” Hermione, surreptitiously, had managed to consume most of the scone Ron had brought her during Charms class, and that along with a dose of Pain-Relief Potion had been enough to sort her out. “I think the question is, how are you?”

His hand tightened around hers. “I don't know what to do, Hermione,” he admitted. “It feels weird to even have a future, let alone have to make a decision about it right this very second.”

“I just thought you always wanted to be an Auror, you and Harry used to talk about it all the time.”

“I did… I do,” he said, a bit hesitant. “Just because Voldemort’s gone, it doesn't mean there aren't still Death Eaters out there, but then - I know it sounds mental, but I think about Mad-Eye. He was one the best Aurors out there, but he still wasn't invincible, and he was paranoid as hell, he didn't trust anyone. I just don't know if that's any way to live.”

Hermione considered his words. Mad-Eye Moody had been talented and smart and incredibly brave, but he had also spent the later stages of his life drinking only from his hip flask with small chunks of his face missing. It seemed reasonable to not want to end up like that.

“And I've always loved the shop,” Ron went on. “I want to help George, but what if it's not the same without - without Fred? And what if I decide I don't want to spend the rest of my life working in a joke shop?” He stopped and stepped in front of Hermione, taking her other hand in his. “Can't you just tell me what to do?”

“I don't think I can.”

“But you’re always telling me what to do, this is no different.”

“This is completely different from making you do your homework.”

The corner of his mouth arched into an affectionate smile. “So then, what do you _think_ I should do?”

“I think you should do whatever you think will make you happy,” Hermione stated diplomatically.

“But I told you, you are what makes me happy.”

“Take me out of the equation,” said Hermione. “What if we weren't together, what would you choose then?”

“I can't take you out of it,” Ron replied, “you're my girlfriend and - and I love you and I can't make this kind of decision without thinking of you.”

“Yes, you can, because I don't want you to resent me twenty years from now because whatever I said turned out not to be what you wanted.”

Tipping his head to the side, Ron took a step closer to her so that their torsos almost touched. “You think we’ll be together in twenty years?”

Hermione’s whole face instantly heated up, and not just because of the warming charm. “I - I just meant-”

“Because I do,” he offered shyly. “And I think in twenty years, if we’re together and - and I don't know, maybe we have a couple of kids running around or something-” he too had now gone red in the face- “then that’ll be enough for me. More than enough.”

There was just enough light from the crescent moon for Hermione to see the way he was looking at her, like she was the only thing in the world that mattered. A lot of the time, she felt that way about him too. If the war had taught her anything, it was that love and friendship and family would always win. But then again, she wanted a life for herself, too. She wanted a career that fulfilled her, that challenged her, one where she could, as she'd put it to Rufus Scrimgeour last summer, do some good in the world. She loved Ron more than anything, but she did not want to lose herself in the midst of all that, and he wouldn't want that for her either. Why, then, should she allow him to do that for her?

She simply couldn't.

“If you're only staying at Hogwarts because of me,” she told him, finding her voice oddly thick, “then you shouldn't stay. We survived a war, we can handle a little distance.”

Ron said nothing, instead simply kissing her on the lips. Dropping his hands, Hermione wound her arms around his waist and deepened the kiss, pulling his lower lip between her teeth. It wasn't that she wanted him to leave; she couldn't picture Hogwarts without Ron and Harry, but she wouldn't be the reason that he made himself miserable every single day.

“I have an idea,” Hermione whispered against his lips. If his time at Hogwarts was coming to a close, she could easily find ways to make it memorable. “Come on, we’re going back inside.”

Intrigued, Ron followed her back into the castle, past the entrance hall where they narrowly avoided being hit with a water balloon by Peeves, and up to the fifth floor. They were the only students around - Hermione made sure of that by casting _Homenum Revelio_ to confirm that there were no other human presences nearby. She reached the door next to the statue of Boris the Bewildered and turned back to see a look of mild disbelief on Ron's face.

“Is this really happening?”

“Looks that way,” she smiled, turning to the door again. “Wintergreen.”

It sprang open and they stepped inside, taking in the gleaming marble floors, the enormous tub the size of a swimming pool, the stack of thick, fluffy towels in the corner. Hermione walked to the tub and turned one of the golden taps, which immediately began to gush hot water and golden bubbles. As the tub began to fill, Hermione removed her shoes and shed her robes, stacking them neatly in the corner. Ron, mesmerized, simply watched her.

“What are you waiting for?” she asked coyly, unbuttoning her blouse. “You're going to be so behind.”

“Right,” Ron nodded, kicking his shoes haphazardly toward the wall. “Right, yeah, I’d hate to keep you waiting.”

“Exactly.”

Now down to her bra and knickers, Hermione felt the first wave of self-consciousness hit her. She had been naked with Ron hundreds of times before (or at least, it felt that way), but she didn't usually stand in brightly-lit rooms and strip while he watched. But then again, it was Ron. He loved her, flaws and all.

Reaching behind her back, she unhooked the clasp between her shoulders and let her bra fall, feeling Ron's eyes roam hungrily over her figure. Their eyes met as she looped her thumbs into the thin strips of fabric on her hips and drew them down her legs. She walked, now fully naked, over to the steps at the edge of the pool and entered the water, surrounding herself with warmth and a vaguely minty scent.

“Aren't you going to join me?” she asked when the water had reached her waist, for he still stood and gazed at her.

“Oh! Yeah! Sorry,” he chuckled, almost tripping over himself in his haste to reach her. “Sorry,” he said again as he stepped into the tub. “I sort of can't believe this is happening. I wish I had a Time-Turner so I could go back and let fifteen-year-old me know that this actually happens someday - not that he'd believe me.”

“You can't use a Time-Turner to go back that far,” Hermione said as the water flooded over her shoulders. “The most is five hours-”

“so I’ve heard,” he said, still grinning. “Oh, come here.” He grabbed her wrist and pulled her through the water so their bodies were pressed together. The pool was deep - when Ron stood flat on his feet, the water nearly reached his shoulders - which meant Hermione would be completely submerged if she did the same. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she leaned in and kissed him.

“So what else did you used to think about? Before?”

“Erm…” Ron gave a nervous laugh and kissed her again. “It's kind of embarrassing.”

“No, it isn't, you can tell me.” She wrapped her legs loosely around his waist. “I won't laugh, I promise.”

Ron kissed her again, so gently yet with such underlying need that for a moment she forgot they were even having a conversation.

“Wait, wait,” she said, leaning back. “Don't distract me. What was your fantasy about?”

“Okay, well - okay, just remember that I dreamed this up in fifth year when I was still a bit of an idiot-”

“Ron-”

“So the whole thing was, I'd be in here after a Quidditch match - obviously one where we won and I saved every single goal - and then you'd walk in on me accidentally, and at first you'd apologize, but then…” He shook his head in disbelief. “Then you'd be like, ‘actually, I'm not sorry at all’ and then you’d… ask to join me.”

It was only because she promised not to that Hermione held back her laughter. “And then what?”

“Oh - yeah, I usually never had to go past that point.” Pointedly he raised his brows. “If you know what I mean.”

“Oh my God.”

“You asked!” he reminded her. “Doesn't matter anyway. Nothing I could think of could ever compare to the real thing, so… so come back here.”

Their lips met once again, this time with more urgency, Ron's tongue dipping into her mouth and running along the inside of her lip. His hands traveled down her back to pull her tightly against him, and the heat of the water paired with the taste of his lips had her head spinning. Wading through the water, he backed her up against the side of the tub and moved his lips down to her jaw, kissing a wet trail up to her ear.

“Ron,” Hermione sighed, arching her neck, “what if… Myrtle…”

He drew away from her and looked her in the eyes. “You really know how to kill a mood, don't you?”

“It's a valid concern.”

“I'm sure it'll be okay, she's got her pick of bathrooms to haunt, hasn't she?”

“I suppose…” Hermione took a second to really look at him, his flushed skin and messy hair and freckles populating the bridge of his nose. “Oh, it's fine. What's life without a little risk?”

They became lost in a flurry of eager, excited hands and golden bubbles and lips fusing against damp, hot skin. Hermione wouldn't have noticed if a meteor blasted through the castle, let alone if the ghost of a teenage witch came in to spy on them, but they needn't have worried. They were, as it always seemed to be when they were together, the only two people that existed. Despite what Ron had said, Hermione had a sense he was going to be leaving Hogwarts soon - it was really only a matter of time - and so she had to soak in every second she had with him. She positioned him between her legs, sighing as he guided himself inside, clinging tightly to his body and driving her heels into the small of his back. Ron kept his hands on her thighs, holding her in place as he pumped in and out of her, water rippling around his shoulders. Hermione’s forehead fell on his, their mouths millimeters apart, breathing each other in, both half in a state of disbelief. Despite the heat of the water, shivers broke out over her skin as Ron nipped lightly at the skin behind her ear. Pinning her to the wall, he drove forcefully into her, his fingers digging into her legs as she lost all control.

“We need to get back,” Hermione whispered when they were done, her arms still looped around his shoulders.

“Two more minutes,” Ron mumbled, nuzzling into her neck and kissing her there. “You're so… warm… and soft…”

Hermione found his lips with hers, threading her fingers through the damp hairs at the nape of his neck. She knew she wasn't exactly helping her case like this, but she didn't fancy leaving either. If they went back, that meant they had to face the reality of the decisions looming ahead of them, and while they couldn't avoid it forever, they could at least delay it a little bit.

“I love you,” she breathed between kisses.

“Love you too.” Ron pressed his forehead against hers and stole one last kiss. “I reckon we’ve pushed our luck with Myrtle long enough though.”

Reluctantly they exited the tub and used their wands to dry themselves off, then dressed. Hermione left the room first to ensure that they wouldn't be caught leaving together, and soon they were climbing a moving staircase back to Gryffindor tower. Hermione linked her fingers loosely through Ron's, reaching up to peck his cheek.

“So, I'm going to speak at the Wizengamot hearing,” Ron said with a sense of stoic resignation as the stairs clicked into place in front of the Fat Lady’s portrait. “It's important to Harry, so I'm going to do it.”

“I'm sure he'd understand if you didn't want to.”

“I know, but he'd do the same thing for me. Filibuster,” he added to the Fat Lady, and her portrait swung open.

Inside the common room, Harry and Ginny sat near the fire, a roll of parchment and quills strewn about on the table in front of them.

“Where have you been?” Harry asked, a little annoyed when he saw them. “I need to know what to tell Kingsley, I'm writing to him now.”

“Tell him I'll do it,” said Ron as he and Hermione walked over to the sofa. “I'll be there.”

“Brilliant!” Harry beamed. “They've got to pass the bill now, they won't have a choice with the two of us there.”

“Y-yeah,” Ron nodded with half a glance at Hermione. “That's good, then.”

“I think I’m just going to go to bed,” said Hermione, giving Ron's hand a squeeze.

“Really?” Under the pretense of hugging her, he wrapped his free arm around her shoulders and ducked down to speak softly in her ear. “You all right?”

“I’m fine,” she said quietly, “it’s just been a bit of a crazy day.”

“Okay, I'll see you in the morning, then?”

“Yeah.” Hermione slipped a hand behind his neck as she leaned up to kiss him goodnight, finding that he let it linger on a bit longer than he normally would in front of his best friend and sister.

As Hermione headed up the stairs, she heard Harry calling Ron over for help composing the letter.

* * *

 

_Thanks for reading! Please review :)_


	10. The Hearing

Hermione loved her parents, truly, but they sure had a lot of questions. Her first evening of the Christmas holidays was spent recounting nearly every moment of the term over dinner, from her schedule for patrolling the castle to the content of her Defense Against the Dark Arts classes. She knew their hearts were in the right place, as they simply wanted to assure themselves that Hogwarts was safe, but Hermione couldn't help but want to remind them that she was nineteen and more than capable of looking after herself. Had the war not delayed her education, she would likely be living on her own with a full-time job by now. Once she did graduate Hogwarts, they wouldn't be able to monitor every aspect of her life.

And truthfully, since she was a witch and they were Muggles, they couldn't do that now, either. They watched a film together following dinner, and then Hermione stated her intention to turn in early. Her mum and dad decided to do the same, so Hermione busied herself with unpacking her trunk in her bedroom until she was certain that her parents had fallen asleep. Already clad in pajamas, Hermione cast a soundproofing spell on her bedroom to stifle the sound of Disapparition and then turned on the spot, landing deftly on the front porch of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. With her wand she made a series of taps on the doorknob to unlock it and stepped into the house. All was quiet as she crept through the front hallway and up the stairs to Ron's room.

He was fast asleep in his bed when she entered the room, his chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths. Hermione stopped in her tracks and studied him. He looked peaceful, content, safe, even with the Wizengamot hearing looming on the horizon. She had always envied this ability of his to rest easily even with the unknown stretched out before them. Lifting the edge of the duvet, she crawled in next to him, relishing the sensation of finally sharing a bed with him again.

Ron groaned and rolled onto his side, instinctively draping an arm around her. “Hi,” he muttered, his lips falling onto her forehead moreso by accident than anything else.

“Go back to sleep,” she told him. She was, truthfully, exhausted after six hours on the Hogwarts Express and undergoing her parents’ constant questioning and all she really wanted was to fall asleep in Ron's arms.

“M’awake now.” He placed a kiss on her lips; his were soft and warm from sleep. “And I'm glad you're here.”

“I am too.”

Ron shifted onto his back again, one arm around her shoulders and the other on her waist as she laid her cheek on his chest. Lying in his arms like this, with the whole night ahead of them, it felt even better than she remembered. He had been right, in a way, about Hogwarts being a step backwards in their progression toward becoming real, actual adults. Their freedom had been drastically reduced and now, for at least the next two weeks, they had it back again.

“Are you ready for tomorrow?” Hermione asked, hooking her leg over his.

“Yeah, reckon so.”

“You know what you're going to say?”

“Yeah, I just hope it's enough.” Out of habit, Ron lightly stroked her hair with his fingertips. “Even if I don't, y’know, take advantage of it, I still want the bill to pass. I learned more in one year on the run than in six years of Defense Against the Dark Arts classes.”

“To be fair, our education in that subject was astonishingly uneven,” Hermione pointed out, “but I know what you mean.”

“You're still coming over for Christmas Eve, right?”

“Yes, of course.” Christmas at the Burrow was something that Hermione had yet to experience for herself, so she was planning to split her time between Ron's family and her own. “And my mum and dad said you're more than welcome to come by on Christmas Day if you'd like.”

“What do you usually do that day?”

“Not a whole lot, just open gifts, watch Christmas films, eat. It's a bit of a boring day, really, so you should definitely come over.”

“Maybe,” he said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. “I mean, I want to, but… it's the first Christmas since…” He let the words trail off. “So I think I should stay at home.”

“Right, of course you should,” Hermione agreed quickly. “And my mum and dad will understand.”

“They won't think I'm scared of them?”

“ _Are_ you scared of them?”

“No!” he exclaimed, indignant. “Maybe your dad, a little, but that's normal.”

“Do you think Harry is afraid of your dad?”

“Well, no, but that's completely different.” Ron was thoroughly flustered now; Hermione grinned as she watched the flush rise in his cheeks. “I know you say your parents like me-”

“They do-”

“But I'm always a little worried that they wish I'd keep my grubby hands off their daughter.”

“You're not grubby, and anyway, I'm nineteen, there's not a whole lot they can do about it.”

“And yet you had to sneak out to come here.”

“Oh, would you prefer I not sneak out?”

“No, no,” Ron was quick to reply, “please do.” He pulled her in close for a kiss, humming softly against her lips. Suddenly Hermione no longer felt tired; on the contrary, every nerve in her body seemed to light up at his touch. She turned onto her back, pulling him on top of her by the shirt collar. They had all night to be together, Hermione realized as Ron worked on the buttons holding her pajama top together. There was no need to rush - though, as time alone at Hogwarts was still tricky to come by, they were bound to end up rushing a bit - and Hermione found herself smiling against his lips.

His shirt was first to go, followed by hers, and soon Hermione was left just in her bra and knickers and Ron just in his pants. He was kissing down her neck now, his hips settled between hers, the solid length of him teasing her, reminding her with every movement of their bodies just how good it felt when he was filling her up. Pushing down the strap of her bra, he moved his lips over the soft curve of her breast and shifted the thin lace out of the way, swirling his tongue around her nipple and-

There came a forceful pounding on the door. “Ron?” called Harry's voice. “You awake?”

Ron cringed and moved Hermione's bra back into place. “Go away,” he yelled back over his shoulder.

“No, open up.”

Hermione dove under the covers as Ron dragged himself away from her and stomped to the door, opening it just the slightest crack.

“Yes?” he said tersely, brows raised, making it quite clear how much he did not appreciate the interruption. “What can I do for you?”

“Oh, sorry,” Harry said perfunctorily, plainly not sorry at all. “We've just gotten an owl, they moved the hearing up to eight tomorrow morning. Thought you might like to know.”

“And you couldn't have told me this in the morning?”

“Well, I didn't know - anyway, we should leave at half past seven tomorrow.”

“Okay, great,” Ron said dismissively. “See you tomorrow.” And, deeming the conversation complete, he shut the door and rejoined Hermione in bed. “If I had a Sickle for every time he interrupted us… now, where were we?”

Try as she might to remind himself that they weren't at Hogwarts, that there was no need to rush, Ron simply felt too brilliant for Hermione to want to take things slow and easy. Her body was downright hungry for his, every motion of his hips thrusting into her making her sigh and whimper and moan out his name. By the end they were sweaty and sticky and shaking from the effort of their exertions, and Ron was still on top of her, panting into her neck, when she spoke.

“I wonder why they rescheduled it?” she thought aloud.

Appalled, Ron pulled his hips away from hers and fell onto his back. “Why would you be thinking that now? Do thoughts of the Wizengamot turn you on, because if so-”

“No, no, I wasn't thinking about it when we were - but it's strange, isn't it? To change it at midnight the night before?”

“Yeah, I s’pose.” He turned onto his side and placed his hand on her stomach, rubbing his palm over her skin.

“I think they must be trying to catch you off-guard, to see how you react when the circumstances change,” Hermione mused.

“If they are, it isn't working.” Ron skimmed his hand over her breast, playing with her nipple and sending an aftershock of pleasure through her body.

“Ron,” Hermione sighed as he kissed her neck, “we should go to sleep now that you've got to be up so early.” She hated to say it, but she knew they couldn't spend half the night tangled up together with something so important happening the next day.

“Yeah, you're right,” he conceded, giving her one more quick kiss. “Wow, I bet they never realized their little schedule change would mess with me quite like this.”

•••

Hermione stopped home early that morning to give the appearance that she had slept the entire night there and to shower, change clothes and let her parents know where she was going. She and Ginny planned to accompany Ron and Harry to the hearing for moral support even if they wouldn't be allowed inside the courtroom. She had the sense that Ron, understandably, would be rather anxious about speaking to the Wizengamot and she hoped that her presence would demonstrate just how much faith she had in him.

Ron was in the shower when Hermione returned to Grimmauld Place, so she made her way to the basement kitchen, where Harry was munching on toast.

“Where's Ginny?” asked Hermione, joining Harry at the table and helping herself to a slice.

“She should be here any minute, she's going to Floo over.” Harry pulled a jar of jam toward him and scooped out a liberal amount. “Sorry about last night,” he said with his eyes trained on the slice of toast he was slathering in marmalade. “I didn't know you were here.”

“It's okay, we’re used to it by now.”

“I don't mean to do it,” Harry added. “Get in the way of you two all the time. I really am glad you're together.”

“So am I.”

“But could you consider using a silencing charm next time you stay over?”

Hermione quickly found herself unable to make eye contact with Harry. “Right, sorry,” she blushed. “We just got a little distracted-”

“I don't need details,” Harry interjected, and thankfully right at that moment, the Floo roared to life and Ginny appeared within the acid-green flames, causing the topic to be dropped.

As Ginny walked over to kiss Harry and steal his toast, water ceased rushing through the pipes in the house, signaling the end of Ron's shower. He appeared in the kitchen a few minutes later, wearing his nicest robes, smelling strongly of soap. His hands shook as he attempted to pour himself a cup of tea; Hermione stood and approached him.

“No matter what happens,” she said, softly so that Harry and Ginny couldn't hear, “and no matter what you choose… I think you're amazing. And I love you.”

Ron cracked a smile and touched his lips to her forehead. “I love you too.”

“And I know you’ll be brilliant.”

“Ahh, no, don't say that,” Ron lamented. “Then I feel like if I mess up, I'm letting you down.”

“No, you could never,” Hermione told him fervently. Barring some serious betrayal, she could not possibly imagine looking at him and feeling disappointment. “I don't want you to think you constantly have to prove yourself to me.”

Ron looked like he wanted to reply, but then closed his mouth and kissed her forehead again. “Okay,” he said simply.

He was clearly not convinced, so Hermione used the sides of his robes to pull him closer, angling her face up to kiss him, but Harry's voice broke through before she could make contact.

“It's time to go,” Harry was saying, fetching his wand from the kitchen work surface behind them.

“I'm telling you,” Ron muttered to Hermione, “if I had a Sickle…”

•••

The door to the courtroom slammed shut with a heavy finality, leaving Hermione and Ginny alone in the hallway, staring at one another. The full reality of the situation seemed to sink in for both of them. They weren't sure how long the hearing would last, it could be one hour or it could be three, but they knew that their lives could be drastically different by the end of it.

“Here,” Ginny whispered, digging through her robes and tossing a flesh-colored length of string to Hermione: Extendable Ears. “I can't sit out here and not know what's going on.”

“Good idea.”

Seating themselves on the floor, they unraveled the strings and fed them just under the gap below the door. Kingsley Shacklebolt’s voice rang through loud and clear in Hermione's ear, but he appeared to be introducing a rather mundane bill about cauldron-bottom thickness.

“Percy’ll be thrilled,” Ginny chuckled, making herself comfortable. “Why are they doing these stupid ones first? Why make them wait?”

“They're testing them again,” Hermione stated. “I think they're trying to see if they can rattle them.”

“I don't think anything rattles Harry anymore,” Ginny remarked. “Except, I really don't know what's going to happen if this bill doesn't pass, he’s going to be so upset, he's really counting on it.”

“Yeah,” Hermione nodded, at a bit of a loss as to how to respond. She couldn't exactly say that Ron was counting on the bill passing, because he wasn't, but she didn't want to convey to Ginny that Ron had walked into the courtroom entirely conflicted. That would help no one. “Ooh, okay,” she piped up suddenly as the sound of a gavel pounded through the Extendable Ear. “They passed the cauldron thickness regulation!”

“Well, thank Merlin for that,” Ginny quipped. “I'll finally be able to sleep at night.”

“Shush,” Hermione snapped back. “It means they're up next.”

Briefly she wondered how it might look to a casual passerby stumbling upon two teenagers eavesdropping on a courtroom proceeding, but then Kingsley began to introduce the bill and Hermione’s attention snapped back to the hearing. She had only been inside one of these courtrooms once, when she was disguised as a Ministry employee and attempting to steal a Horcrux from Dolores Umbridge, and it had been a horrible, gloomy, foreboding sort of place. Of course, circumstances were quite different - there would be no dementors or accusations of stolen magic - but Hermione still didn't expect that it would be a picnic in the park.

“As Minister of Magic,” Kingsley intoned in his deep, commanding voice, “I call before the Wizengamot Mr. Ronald Bilius Weasley.”

There was a calm, and Hermione could almost picture Ron stepping to the middle of the courtroom. Was he nervous? Did he have that vaguely green complexion he always took on before important Quidditch matches?

“My name is Ron Weasley,” he began, voice steady, “and I'm currently in the middle of completing my final year at Hogwarts. I’m a year behind, as are several of my friends, because I spent what would have been my seventh year on the run with Harry Potter.” He paused. “I don't think I need to reiterate Harry's accomplishments to you. Everyone knows what happened at Hogwarts in May, but what you don't know is everything that happened before that. We fought Death Eaters and we escaped Snatchers and we spent months learning how to protect and defend ourselves because we had no other choice.

“Minister Shacklebolt wrote this bill, and wants to see it passed, because he's an Auror himself, and a rather accomplished one at that. He knows what the job is like, and he knows, like I do and like Harry does, that there are plenty of things you can't learn from books. Some things you can only get from experience, and we've already got that. Everyone who fought at Hogwarts in May, they've already got more experience fighting dark wizards than I would wish on anybody. Let them do something useful with it, let it mean something. To ask someone like Harry to return to a classroom after what he's accomplished… it almost discredits him, in a way. It's saying that it was a fluke, what he did, when that is the furthest thing from the truth.”

 _He's doing this for Harry,_ Hermione thought with a great surge of amazement for her boyfriend. _He's not here for himself, he's here for Harry._

“It isn't that I don't think the NEWT exams are important, because of course they are,” Ron continued, his voice never wavering.

“He knows you're listening,” Ginny whispered with a smirk.

“Be quiet!” Hermione hissed, eager to hear Ron's conclusion.

“But exams aren't everything. They don't make you into the person you are, it's your life experiences that do that, and the Battle of Hogwarts certainly shaped everyone who was there that day. So, with that in mind… I would like to respectfully ask that you pass this bill. Thank you for your time.”

“Thank you, Mr. Weasley,” said Kingsley. “I’d now like to call before the Wizengamot Mr. Harry James Potter…”

Hermione slumped against the wall, her eyes closed in relief and awe. Ron had been brilliant. He'd said what they had all been thinking this whole time, that the best way to learn how to fight dark wizards was to actually fight dark wizards, but he'd done so eloquently and calmly and with such sincerity that nobody would dare question him. He had meant it, every word, and he had said it all so that Harry could have a hope of pursuing his dream career just a little sooner than planned.

And he was _her_ boyfriend, she marveled as Harry's voice floated through her brain without really registering. Someone that loyal and selfless and brave had chosen her to love, and she couldn't have felt luckier for it.

“Thank you, Mr. Potter,” said Kingsley when Harry was done speaking. “Those in favor of passing the bill, please raise your hands.” A tense lull as votes were counted ensued. “And those opposed?” Another lull. Hermione's heart was hammering in her ears; she could only imagine how Ron and Harry felt. “Very well. The bill is hereby passed into law. Those wishing to be considered for extraordinary circumstances must submit an application before the fourth of January…”

Ginny had jumped to her feet, her face alight with excitement, and Hermione scrambled up as well, if only to avoid being trampled by the stream of people about to emerge from the courtroom.

They had really, truly done it. Harry didn't need Hogwarts anymore, and Ron certainly didn't either. He wasn't going to go back with her. He could stay here, in London, and begin training at the Ministry, or help George reopen the shop in Diagon Alley, and actually move forward in his life. He wouldn't be Gryffindor’s Keeper anymore and he wouldn't kiss her goodnight in the common room or try to coax her into skiving off classes. They wouldn't partner up in Potions class and he wouldn't pester her to check his homework because no matter what he had said, she was his only reason for staying at Hogwarts and she wouldn't stand for that. He was moving on, even if it meant leaving her behind.

Ron was the last person to leave the courtroom, and Hermione immediately flung her arms around his neck in a bone-crushing embrace.

“I'm _so_ proud of you,” she whispered fiercely, feeling her throat tighten.

“Thanks, love,” he replied, leaning back to look at her and crinkling his brows at the sight of her watery eyes. “What's the matter?”

“Nothing,” she insisted. “Nothing at all.”

“We ought to celebrate,” Harry suggested with an arm slung over Ginny's shoulders. He looked younger, lighter, than he had in ages. “Let's go to the Leaky or something.”

“It's nine in the morning,” Ron pointed out.

“Yeah, well, it's Christmas and we just passed a new law, we can do what we want. Come on, let's go!”

Within ten minutes, thanks to the convenience of Apparition, the four of them had settled into a back booth of the Leaky Cauldron. Tom Abbott, the proprietor, was wholly unfazed by the early hour of their patronage, and Harry and Ginny went up to the bar together to fetch the butterbeers. Left alone, Hermione inched closer to Ron and planted a kiss on his lips.

“Can I stay with you tonight?” she asked, clasping her hands around one of his. Leaving. He was leaving. She had to capitalize on the time they had left together.

“Yeah, you never have to ask,” he responded. “In fact, most of the time you don't ask, you just show up - and I'm not complaining-” He shifted in his seat to face her more fully “-are you sure you're okay?”

“I'm fine,” she nodded, giving him another kiss as though that would prove it.

And she was fine, really. She was not the sort of girl who lost her head at the thought of a bit of separation from her boyfriend. Their relationship would survive it, and likely come out stronger at the end. That didn't worry her. But this was Hogwarts, and Ron had always been there, even when he was just the annoying boy with dirt on his nose. They were a team, always, and now they were headed on two completely different paths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please review :) And I’d also like to say that I’m planning on expanding a bit on the latter portion of this story, so updates may not come as quickly as they usually do. But I’ll never abandon it, I just ask for a little patience. Thanks again!


	11. Christmas

Hermione had never eaten so much in her entire life. No Hogwarts feast could possibly hope to compare to Molly Weasley’s Christmas Eve dinner and leaving the table without second and third helpings of every dish, from roast beef to mince pies to trifle, was simply unacceptable. There were so many people crammed around the kitchen table at the Burrow and so many plates brimming with deliciousness that it was almost - almost - possible to forget that there was one very glaring absence. It was jarring, still, to look at George and not see his mirror image beside him, but the Weasleys seemed to operate with a dogged determination to have, despite everything, an objectively good holiday. For Mrs. Weasley, that meant food. Lots of it.

“I'm never eating again,” Ron groaned, falling onto the sitting room sofa beside Hermione.

“That's likely,” George scoffed from across the room.

“Is it possible to die from eating too much?” Ron continued on as he leaned his head back.

“No,” Hermione chimed in. “You would probably throw up before that happened.”

She did, however, find herself rendered incredibly sluggish from the sheer volume of food she had consumed, and she curled up into a ball against the arm of the sofa, her knees against her chest, her eyelids heavy. In the days that had passed since the hearing at the Ministry, Hermione had spent her nights sneaking over to Grimmauld Place to see Ron, where she only ever managed about four or five consecutive hours of sleep before she had to return home. Still, it was better than not being with him at all. She would be doing enough sleeping alone when she went back to Hogwarts.

Tonight, however, Ron was planning to spend the night at the Burrow, which meant that privacy was entirely non-existent. Perhaps it was for the best, anyway. She couldn't start taking his presence for granted, not when the Christmas holidays would end in ten short days and she would, subsequently, board a train that would take her hundreds of miles away from him.

In a way, Hermione detested herself for her own melodramatics over the whole thing. She did not need a man to make her feel complete or make her happy, even if said man was Ron, her best friend, the love of her life. She could return to school and accomplish the goals she had always had for herself, and she could also be with Ron. She could have both, even if it meant she would see him less than was ideal. There was no need for her to act like he was heading off to war for five years when the truth was that she would likely see him in a month or two. She loved him and she wanted him in her life, but that didn't mean she couldn't survive - or thrive - without seeing him every day.

Curling up against Ron’s side, she allowed herself to succumb to the drowsiness clouding her skull. The events of the evening washed over her, dreamlike: Bill challenging Percy to a chess match, which the latter won; Ginny stringing up fairy lights across the walls; the refilling of glasses of wine and cups of tea; Harry and Ron hotly debating the merits of the Sloth Grip Roll; Celestina Warbeck singing in the background the entire time. Here it was safe and warm and comfortable, and she was content to let the night unfold around her, to revel in the sight of Ron’s relaxed, easy smile as he joked with his brothers and conversed with his parents. Hermione leaned her head on Ron's shoulder and let her eyes slip shut, breathing in the scent of his hair mixed with the aromas still lingering from dinner. It was a rare peaceful moment in what had been a rather eventful year, and she was grateful for it, more than she could say.

“She sleeping?” George inquired at some point during the night.

“Nah,” Ron replied, “you'd know if she was. She snores.”

In retaliation, and to prove her own consciousness, Hermione reached out a hand and pinched him hard on the leg.

“Oi!”

“I do not snore,” Hermione said primly, nestling further into Ron's side. Sleep really didn't sound like the worst idea, since she and Ron were prone to distraction whenever she spent the night at Grimmauld Place with him, so she let her eyes close again.

“Yes, she does,” Ron said in a loud stage whisper.

“And how exactly would you know?” asked George.”I didn't get the impression you did much sleeping at the Three Broomsticks.”

“Shut up,” Ron hissed. Hermione couldn't see him, but she could still picture the heat rising in his face. “And in case you've forgotten, we lived in a tent together for the better part of a year.”

“I do keep forgetting you don't actually live here anymore,” George said. “Probably because it's taken you _so long_ to finish Hogwarts-”

“It wasn't by choice!” Ron shot back, though Hermione could hear laughter in his voice.

“You could always follow in the family tradition and drop out. Best decision I ever made.”

“I…” Ron stiffened. “I don't know what I'm going to do yet.”

“Why the hell would you go back?” asked George, sounding terribly impatient. “You have not one but two very lucrative job offers and you want to, what, go to Herbology class?”

“Will you drop it?”  
  
“No, because I don't understand why you won't just come and work for me.”

 _Because of me_ , Hermione thought glumly. It was solely because of her that Ron was even considering returning to Hogwarts. Try as she might to get him to make his decision as though she didn't exist, he hadn't been able to do that. And if she truly wanted to be selfish, she could ask him to go back with her and he would do it in a heartbeat, but she couldn't let that happen. She wanted him to be happy, but she didn't want to be his only source of happiness.

“At least come by and take a look at the shop,” George was saying. “I'm still getting everything set up, but you should at least see the place.”

Ron agreed, rather readily, and a plan was made for a Saturday trip to Diagon Alley. The conversation turned to other topics, nothing that interested Hermione nearly as much as Ron's vocational opportunities, and so she did drift off for a period of time into a sort of hazy half-sleep, where the scene around her blurred with lucid dreams until Ron tenderly nudged her awake.

“Everyone's going to bed,” he told her. “Are you going to stay here?”

“No, they're expecting me home,” said Hermione, blinking away the bleariness in her eyes. “Let me just say bye to everyone.”

There were hugs and well-wishes all around, and then Ron and Hermione stepped out into the crisp winter night, heading to the boundary of the wards that still guarded the Burrow.

“Come with me to the shop on Saturday,” said Ron, his breath fogging before him as he spoke. “I want you to see it too.”

“George won't care?”

“No, he said to bring you.”

And Hermione knew why. George was, first and foremost, a salesman, and a good one at that. He knew his target, and so he was well aware that if Hermione felt positively toward the shop, it would be that much more appealing to Ron. At the same time, however, she was genuinely curious to see the place, and so she agreed.

Ron dipped his head and pressed his lips warmly to hers, then pulled her into a hug. “I love you,” he said into her hair.

“Love you too.” She rose up on her toes to kiss him again. “And if you need me tomorrow, let me know.”

“Okay.” He gave Hermione one last kiss, and then she stepped outside of the wards and turned on the spot.

•••

If Christmas Eve at the Burrow was warm, crowded, buzzing with energy, then Christmas Day at the home of the Grangers was decidedly… well, Hermione hated to admit it, given that she hadn’t spent many Christmases with her parents over the years, but it was a bit bland in comparison. The magic of Christmas morning - the gifts under the tree, the elaborate breakfast, the annual matching pajamas - had all begun to fade around the time Hermione had gone to Hogwarts. And now that they were all adults, she didn’t need them to put on any sort of festive facade for them, not when there was still an Australia-sized elephant in the room most of the time.

Not everything had changed, though: her father still made the best pancakes in England.

“Do you want any more, dear?” asked Simon, holding up the mixing bowl of batter and a spatula.

“No, I’m so full, thanks,” Hermione responded, glancing down at her syrup-streaked plate.

“Well, what time is Ron coming over? I can make more when he’s here.”

“Oh.” Hermione suddenly felt the gaze of both of her parents upon her. “I don’t think he’ll be coming over today, actually.”

“Why not?” asked her mum from across the table. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” said Hermione quickly, “it’s just that - well - as it’s the first Christmas since his brother died, he just thought - and I thought - that he should probably stay with his family.”

And there it was. The thought of Fred - the thought of how much had been lost in the war - had introduced a now-familiar tension into the room.

“He did want to come over,” Hermione added into the silence, “but after everything-“

“Oh, we understand,” her dad said amiably, setting down the mixing bowl and seating himself at the table.

“I don’t know if you do,” Hermione found herself saying, causing her parents to look to each other in surprise, “and maybe that’s my fault, maybe I haven’t explained it as well as I could have, but it was - it was a lot worse than I ever let on, and it was happening for years.”

“What do you mean?”

Hermione steadied herself, closing her eyes momentarily; she couldn’t bear to look into her parents’ eyes and explain just how deep the lies had run. Her first few years at Hogwarts, she spent her holidays with her family gushing about her new life. She took them to Diagon Alley, told them all about her friends - how funny Ron was, how and why Harry had grown up without parents, the brave things they had done together - but then Voldemort had risen again and she knew she could no longer be so cavalier. There had been too much at stake, and so she had started doing everything with the Weasleys and with Harry, because the greater the distance, the safer they would be.

“Do you remember during my fifth year, when I said I was staying at Hogwarts to study for my OWLs?” Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw them nod. “I wasn’t at Hogwarts, I was in London with the Weasleys - Ron’s dad was attacked, he almost died, and - and there were other things, too, and I can tell you all of it - but I need you to understand how bad it was.”

“So tell us,” said Mary, folding her hands on the table. “What made you decide to do what you did to us?”

“I didn’t do it _to_ you,” said Hermione, almost wishing she had never gone down this road. The forced politeness had almost been better, in a way. “I did it _for_ you, to keep you safe-“

“Yes, but sweetheart, safe from what?” No one could ever say Hermione hadn’t gotten her stubbornness from her mother. “Because when we came back, nothing had changed.”

The divide between them had never before been more clearly spelled out. In the year between Dumbledore’s death and Voldemort’s death, Hermione’s life had changed so much that she was still reeling from it and yet her parents had returned from Australia to an untouched house, to a version of England that had just kept on going without them.

“You’re Muggles,” Hermione said gently. “Everything bad that was happening, you wrote it off as fluke accidents or odd weather patterns but it was wizards, dark wizards, and - and that’s exactly what they wanted, for the world not to realize the sort of danger it was in, but you were in danger.”

“So how bad was it?” asked Simon. “You said you would explain.”

“They knew I was best friends with Harry, they were after anyone who associated with him, and they - they’d have stopped at nothing to get the information they wanted and when you didn’t have it-“ Her breath hitched in her throat. “They’d have killed you.”

“And you couldn’t have told us this before?” asked Mary. “We had a right to know what was happening-“

“No, I couldn’t,” Hermione insisted. “Because you might have taken me with you, and Harry needed me. The three of us were the only ones who knew how to end it, and - and bad doesn’t even begin to describe it.” The words were suddenly fighting to escape her, overflowing, she couldn’t speak quickly enough. She had done a bit of explaining back in Australia, enough to smooth things over, but it was only fair that they knew everything. “Even Ron’s family had to go into hiding, his brother died because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. There was nowhere that was safe, not even Hogwarts at the time, and I couldn’t - it wasn’t your fault,” Hermione said as she watched her empty pancake plate blur before her. “You never intended to have a witch for a daughter, and I didn’t want that to hurt you, so I used it to protect you.

“And I’m sorry,” Hermione concluded in a choked voice, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I’m sorry I spent all summer keeping so much from you - there’s still so much more, but I did it because I thought it was the right thing to do.”

What followed constituted the most exhausting Christmas of Hermione’s life, including the Yule Ball, including the time she spent panicking in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom because she had given herself whiskers and a tail. She explained everything, from Horcruxes to the Cruciatus Curse to the Deathly Hallows. Every question she answered only sparked more questions, but she sat, while holiday films played on the television in the background, and tried to let her parents into her world. She even showed them magic - the simple, positive things, like conjuring a bouquet of flowers with her wand and summoning a book from her bedroom. It wasn’t much, but it was her only option to at least try to include them.

But in the same way that Arthur Weasley would always marvel at a dishwasher or an ATM, her parents would never fully understand the magical world. There was so much that they would never see, never experience, never share with her. They could try - and Hermione wanted them to - but as much as things looked like they had always been, they would never really be the same.

•••

As it turned out, Ron was silent for all of Christmas Day. Hermione decided to view this under the old adage that no news was good news, especially considering how well Christmas Eve had gone, and felt optimistic as she Apparated to Grimmauld Place on Boxing Day. Ron, Harry and Ginny were all in the basement kitchen when she arrived, picking at what appeared to be leftovers from Christmas dinner.

“Hey, you hungry?” Ron asked as Hermione walked over to the table, pecking him on the cheek as she sat down.

“No, not really.”

“Oh, come on, have something,” Ron urged, pushing a bowl of potatoes toward her. Hermione couldn't help but smile: he was certainly his mother's son.

“How was yesterday?” asked Hermione, ignoring the bowl of food.

“Er, it was all right,” said Ron with a shrug. “Had worse Christmases.” He shifted in his seat to face Hermione. “Sorry I didn’t make it, I hope that was all right.”

“It was fine,” Hermione said quickly. “They understood. Anyway, we ought to get going,” she said to Ron. “George’ll be waiting.”

They stood and bade Harry and Ginny goodbye, and Hermione managed to hold her tongue until they had Apparated to the Leaky Cauldron. Ron placed a light hand on her back to guide her through the pub.

“Was it really okay yesterday?” Ron asked as they gave a friendly wave to Tom, the bar owner.

“It was fine, but it’s probably best you didn’t come over, actually. I talked to them. My parents. Probably more than I have in years.”

Exiting out of the back of the pub, Ron took out his wand and tapped a few bricks in the wall.

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“It was just really intense.”

“Maybe that’ll help, though. Y’know, make things better in the long run.” Ron gave Hermione a one-armed squeeze and kissed the side of her head as they walked through the archway into Diagon Alley.

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“Like I always say,” Ron grinned, “I have my moments.”

Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes wasn't quite as vibrant and energetic as it had been when it first opened, but it still remained a bright spot amongst stores that remained boarded up. The front door was open, as George had told them it would be, and he stood near the till, sorting through stacks of trick quills. Somehow he seemed unfazed by his surroundings, which were in absolute disarray. A Portable Swamp had evidently been deployed at some point and covered the back half of the store, Muggle Magic Tricks floating upon its murky surface. Half of the shelves had caved in, scattering products all over the floor, most of them broken, and burn marks marred the walls from detonated fireworks.

“Oh, hey,” George greeted them. “Did I mention the place got ransacked after we went into hiding?”

“No!” Ron exclaimed, gawking at the mess. “For fuck’s sake, George, why didn't you say anything?”

“Would you have come running back to help me any faster if I had?” George asked, a knowing brow raised. Before Ron could answer, he continued on. “I've cleared up the offices and the storage room, in any case, so come take a look.”

He beckoned them behind the counter, leading them to a blank section of the back wall. Aiming his wand into the corner, he murmured an incantation under his breath and a small door appeared. It opened up to a narrow corridor with two doors on the left and two doors on the right.

“So, over here,” George said, gesturing to the doors on the left, “are the offices. This first one’s mine.” They entered to find a small, drab room containing a wooden desk and a filing cabinet. “Er - if you decide to come work here, we could share it for now. Add another desk or something. And these are the ledgers,” he added, picking up a heavy, leather-bound book. “This way, we keep track of what's selling out so we know what to produce more of, and what people aren't buying at all.”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” said Ron amiably with a glance to Hermione, who nodded her approval.

“Okay, so then over here,” George went on, slipping past Hermione to exit the office and unlock the door across the hall, “is all storage.”

The room was bewitched with an Expansion Spell, surely, because the ceilings had to exceed fifty feet and the walls were stacked with crates and boxes bearing labels such as _Shield Hats_ or _Punching Telescopes_. Against one wall sat a large metal cage, the floor of which was lined with straw.

“That's where we had kept the Pygmy Puffs,” George explained. “Unfortunately they didn't survive the summer, so… I don't think we should start to breed them again until we're completely ready to open.”

He spoke, Hermione noticed, using ‘we’ instead of ‘I’ when referencing plans for the shop, and she couldn't help but wonder whether it was a residual effect of being a twin or because he was picturing Ron in these plans.

“You can really sell through all of this inventory?” Hermione asked, surveying the sheer magnitude of the storage room.

“Oh, yeah,” George said at once. “Especially back when the Ministry was ordering the Dark Arts defense items - you know, before they fell. But I reckon they might want them again.”

“That's impressive,” she couldn't help but say.

“And one last thing,” said George as he guided them back into the hallway. The door next to that of the storage room was made of iron and padlocked shut. “This is the Product Development Room. There's not a whole lot going on in there at the moment, obviously, but if you get an idea, you can test it out in there. The whole room’s made of stone, so you won't burn the place down or anything.”

Ron nodded, his lower lip between his teeth; he appeared on the verge of some monumental decision. “Tell you what,” he said finally. “I don't know what I'm going to do yet, but I'll help you out here for at least the rest of the holiday. Starting now.”

“Yeah? Brilliant!” George smiled widely at his younger brother. “I think the first thing we should do is sort through all the products that Transfigure to make sure the spells haven't worn off, I'll teach you how, and then…” He rambled on about the expiration dates of Skiving Snackboxes as Ron glanced over at Hermione.

“You don't mind, do you?”

“No, not at all. I think it's great.”

“And the Wildfire Whizzbangs,” George went on, “we can probably test those in the Development Room, it’s safest in there…”

Ron laughed, shaking his head in amusement. “Come over tonight?”

“Of course.”

He gave her a quick kiss goodbye as George dragged him off, speculating about the best way to dispose of their long-expired stock of Love Potions.

•••

“Ron,” Hermione panted, her breath issuing in sharp spurts from her throat, her fingers tangled in his hair. “Ron, oh God…”

He looked up at her from his position between her thighs, lips glistening. “You okay?”

“Don't stop,” she moaned, guiding his face back where it had been and sighing as his tongue dipped into her again. Her mind was a whirlwind of sensations, lust and desire clouding her brain until all she could think about was his tongue and his lips and his fingers delving inside her. With a gasp and a full-body shiver, she tightened around him and let her hands drop limply to the mattress.

Ron took his time kissing his way back up her body, nibbling her hipbones, trailing his tongue up her torso. As her mind cleared, she remembered distinctly that the end of the holidays was fast approaching; there was barely a week left, and the opportunities to be alone together were rapidly dwindling - but then his lips closed over her nipple and she stopped thinking again.

Before she knew it, he was moving inside of her, groaning at the intimate contact of their bodies, driving her into the bed. It was pure, raw bliss, the closeness, the dizzying pleasure of his skin pressed to hers. Hermione snaked her fingers through his hair and pulled him down into a scorching kiss, their breaths mingling. From there, it wasn't long until he spilled into her. She clung to him, trying desperately, and not entirely succeeding, to stop the moment from slipping away.

“Hermione,” he breathed, lying on his side next to her and slowly moving his hand over her hips and stomach. “How am I supposed to be away from you?”

“Well…” She wasn't about to let on that she had been thinking the same thing about him. “You went eighteen years without sex, what's a few months?”

Her attempt to infuse lightness into the situation went mostly unnoticed. “I don't mean that,” he said. “Okay, so I don't not mean that, but - look, I spent a lot of time at Hogwarts just wishing I could be with you, hold your hand, kiss you whenever I wanted - and now we have that. And I don't want to lose it.”

“And you won't,” said Hermione. “It's not like we’re breaking up.”

“I know, but... I can't imagine not seeing you every day.”

“But think logically about it, what would be the benefit for you if you went back?”

“Being with you.”

“What else?”

“Being with you,” he repeated stubbornly.

“Exactly, you have no reason not to go back.”

“What?” Ron’s hand froze, hovering over her ribcage. “Why would you say you're not a reason? You're a huge reason!”

“You said so yourself that going back to Hogwarts felt like going backwards!” Hermione argued. “Why would you want to keep going backwards?”

“I don't,” he conceded. “I want to help George, I don't want to leave him to deal with the shop all by himself. But I also - last year I told myself that if I ever found you, I was never going to leave you again and it feels like I am-”

“No,” Hermione interrupted forcefully. “It's completely different, if anything, I'm the one who’s leaving you.”

“Doesn't feel that way.” Ron shifted his weight toward her and kissed her softly. “Are you going to mind telling people that your boyfriend is a Hogwarts dropout?”

“Not at all.” Hermione touched her lips to his again. “Are you going to make a dramatic exit like your brothers did?”

“Nah, they only did that to stick it to Umbridge, McGonagall doesn't deserve that. I doubt she’ll be surprised, anyway.”

Hermione moved to kiss him, the odd pang in her chest that she'd felt after the hearing magnifying tenfold. She had just convinced him to stay, to be away from her for months. Rationally she knew it was for the best, but she had an irrational side too, the side that melted a bit every time he touched her, the side that compelled her to kiss him in the middle of a battle, and it was screaming at her now. There would be no more partnering up in Potions class, no more nights studying in the common room, no more stolen shags in his dorm room during the lunch hour. But Ron didn't deserve to be unhappy or to have to put his life on hold. She wouldn't let him do that just for her.

“You came over early tonight,” said Ron when they broke apart. “Not that I'm complaining.”

“My parents had to go to a holiday party for the dental practice,” explained Hermione. “So I didn't have to sneak out for once.”

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “My mum sent us home with all of the leftovers, I think she worries Harry and I will starve living here.”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

They vacated the bed and quickly dressed, Hermione snatching Ron's t-shirt to wear before he could get to it. When he playfully tried to object, she simply told him that she would need it to sleep in at school, which immediately placated him. After descending several flights of stairs, Ron stopped her outside the entrance to the basement kitchen.

“I like you in my clothes,” Ron mumbled, taking her waist and kissing her. “Though…” Their mouths still close, he walked her into the room. “I think I…” A kiss, soft, slow, enticing. “Like you better…” Another kiss. “Without any clothes…”

“Ron,” she laughed, finding it very difficult indeed to stop kissing him. “We literally just-”

“Oh, don't mind me,” came Harry's voice from the wooden table near the fireplace. Hermione jumped away from Ron to see Harry sorting through an enormous stack of parchment at the kitchen table.

“Sorry, Harry,” said Hermione, discreetly wiping her upper lip as Ron surveyed the array of leftover desserts on the work surface.

“Actually, I'm glad you decided to come up for air,” Harry said, “because you should look at this stuff, Ron.”

Ron turned, a biscuit between his teeth, and walked toward Harry, crunching as he went. “What is all that?”

“The Ministry,” Harry began with barely-suppressed glee, “sent over the forms we need to submit our names for consideration for the Auror program - y’know, we have to document the extraordinary circumstances that make us qualified to skip NEWTs. But it looks like that's just a formality because they've also sent over training schedules, course summaries, everything we’ll need.”

Any lightness, any relief that Ron had exhibited after his decision not to return to Hogwarts was abruptly extinguished at this news; he slowly sat at the table and picked up a slip of parchment from a stack.

“They sent this to both of us?” asked Ron, his face ashen as he reviewed the form in his hand.

“Yeah, there was so much stuff they needed two owls,” chuckled an oblivious Harry. “Training starts the eleventh of January, but we have to have the form back to them by the fourth. Here.” He tossed a self-inking quill in Ron's direction. “We can send ours back together.”

With a meaningful glance back at Hermione, Ron shrugged and picked up the quill.

* * *

 

Thanks for reading! Please review :)


	12. Looking Forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to everyone for being so supportive! I hope you like this chapter, it’s an important one. ;)

“Hermione.” A big, slightly rough, very familiar hand landed on her shoulder and shook her. “Hermione, are you sleeping?”

She rolled onto her back and cracked open her eyes. Ron sat, sporting disheveled hair, with his back against the headboard of his bed. Even in the scant moonlight shining in through a gap in the curtains, she could see a sort of anxious look in his blue eyes.

“I was,” she muttered, her heavy eyelids falling shut of their own volition.

It had been a bit of an exhausting night to say the least. Harry had positively oozed anticipation over the Auror documentation they had received, and spent most of the evening smacking Ron on the arm to get his attention and show him some coursework detail or training method. Ron had dutifully filled out the form regarding his own extraordinary circumstances and then, mostly silent, perused the information at hand. Hermione had watched the entire exchange, trying desperately to read the thoughts that she knew were racing through his head. Then they'd come upstairs, because he seemed to be in dire need of a distraction, but evidently even a prolonged shag had not sufficed to wear him out.

“I can't sleep,” he said, his hand still on her shoulder.

Hermione turned onto her side, facing his outstretched legs. “I’d love to, Ron, but I probably won't be able to walk tomorrow if we-”

“No, I wasn't saying - I just want to talk to you.”

At the concern in his voice, Hermione turned onto her back so she could see his face. “What's wrong?”

“I don't know what I'm doing,” he lamented. “I told Harry I'd send Pig out with our Auror forms tomorrow, but I also told George I'd help him for at least the rest of the holiday but I know he needs more help than that, and - and this is just a mess, Hermione, and I don't know what to do.”

She pulled herself up so that she sat next to him, sweeping her hair over one shoulder. “What do you actually want to do?”

“It doesn't matter, does it? I basically made my choice when I spoke at the hearing.” Looking resigned, he cast his eyes down to the duvet covering their lower halves.

“How, exactly?”

“You don't just go and make a speech to the entire Wizengamot about how you're qualified for a job and then, when they let you have the job, just say ‘oh no thank you, I'm going to work in a shop in Diagon Alley instead’, it's completely mental.”

“No, it isn't,” said Hermione. “You believed in what you said, didn't you?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Well, then you didn't do anything wrong,” she reasoned. “You just supported something you thought was right, there's no harm in that.”

“But I did it for Harry, I just wanted to help him. It's a bit of a habit at this point,” he said with a little smile. “But I never told him about George's offer, he thinks I was just helping out today for, I don't know, the hell of it.” Ron made a sort of half-sigh, half-grunt in the back of his throat. “You can say it, love. I'm a mess.”

“No, you aren't. But… do you even want to be an Auror?”

His whole source of stress, it seemed, was that he had gotten himself roped into working as an Auror and couldn't see an escape route.

“Yeah, I actually do. It's a good job, it's good money, it's - it's the kind of thing that matters,” he concluded in a rush. “And there's always going to be dark wizards and I want to make sure - I don't want any of this to ever happen again. But then,” he continued, “I've always loved the joke shop, and George needs my help and - and they used to rake in the Galleons-”

“Stop thinking about in terms of money.”

“Poor kid mentality,” he reminded her gently. “I will always think about money.”

“Okay, well, pretend that they both pay exactly the same-”

“But I can't!” he exclaimed. “All these ways you're giving me to make the decision, I can't do it. I can't not consider you, or the money, or the fact that Kingsley wrote this bill for Harry and me specifically or the fact that my brother - that he’s _gone_ and that's why George needs help - I can't do it. I can't make a decision, I don't know how, and I think I'm just going to pitch myself off a bridge,” he declared in frustration, hands gesticulating madly.

Hermione, however, felt like she was seeing things clearly for the first time in months.

“Just do both,” she suggested as easily as if she were recommending their dinner for the evening.

“Right,” Ron scoffed.

“Why can't you do both?”

“Because there’re no more Time Turners anymore, we smashed them all? Remember?”

“Yes,” replied Hermione with a touch of exasperation, “and I also saw those training schedules downstairs. You'd be able to work for George at night and on weekends without a problem. And I'll be away at school so you'll probably want to keep busy.”

“It seems a bit mad,” Ron said, slowly, thoughtfully.

“No, what's mad is how young wizards and witches are expected to have decided their futures. Don't you remember the end of second year, trying to choose what classes to add for third year?”

“I just signed up for all the same stuff as Harry.”

“Exactly!” Hermione felt wildly energized now that this idea had come to life. “We were thirteen, we didn't know what we wanted. That was part of why I took so many classes, I couldn't stand the thought that I might change my mind later.”

“Okay, but using third year as an example really isn’t the best way to make me think this is a good idea, you ran yourself into the ground that year.”

“But you wouldn't be living twenty-eight hour days like I was. And this way you'd really know whether you'd rather be an Auror or work at the shop, instead of just hoping you make the right choice-”

“Which means I would have to quit on someone eventually,” Ron pointed out. He didn't have to continue the thought, because Hermione already knew what he was getting at: that he didn't want to let anyone down.

“That's okay,” said Hermione. “There's nothing with realizing that something isn't right for you. You're eighteen - Muggles at least get four years of university to work all of this out.”

Ron nodded, pursing his lips in contemplation. “You have a point.”

“I know I do,” she quipped, making him smile. “Honestly, you should just do what you want for once. You're always so selfless but you deserve to do what you want.”

“I already have what I want,” Ron said, softly bumping his shoulder into hers.

“I don't count.”

“But you do, as long as we’re together, that's all I need. Everything else is just, y’know, icing on the cake.”

“Okay, but if you could pick, wouldn't you rather have your favorite kind of icing?”

Ron chuckled and wedged an arm between Hermione's shoulders and the headboard, bringing her into his side. “So if I do both,” he began as Hermione leaned her head against him, “I might not be a very good boyfriend.”

“But you _are_ a good boyfriend.”

“What if I don't have time to write you really long letters while you're away?”

She picked up her head, regarding him with befuddlement. “When have you ever written me a letter that was longer than five sentences?”

“I might, now that we're together,” he replied defensively. “I won't be able to see you so I'll just have to write about all the stuff I want to do to you-”

“You wouldn't,” Hermione replied, scandalized. “What if they're still checking through everyone's mail?”

“So what if they are? I think McGonagall knows we didn't sneak out to the Three Broomsticks because we wanted a butterbeer,” he replied with a cheeky raise of his eyebrows. “And it's three months until Easter, that's a long time, I'm going to get lots of creative ideas.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Ron,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes but then laughing in spite of herself.

Leaning close, he dropped a tender kiss on her lips. “I'm going to do it,” he said, his voice calm yet determined. “I'm going to do both. I mean, I'll have to talk to George but he really doesn't have a choice, it's me or nobody.”

“You’re sure?”

“Definitely. It's barking, I think that's why I trust it.” He kissed Hermione again, his lips lingering on hers. “I'm tired, aren't you? What are we doing up so late?”

Swatting his chest, Hermione crept back down under the covers and when Ron followed suit, she used his chest as a pillow. He wrapped his arms around her and was snoring within minutes.

•••

Once again, she was being shaken awake. Somehow, in the night, she had situated herself so that her back was pressed against Ron's chest, his arm looped over her waist. His lips were on her neck, her ear, her jaw, laying light kisses over her skin.

“Hermione,” he whispered. “You can stay here and keep sleeping if you want, but I have to get ready, I told George I'd meet him at the shop.”

“Now?” Most mornings she Apparated back home at six, but it didn't make sense for Ron to be working that early. “What time is it?”

“Almost ten.”

Her eyes sprang open in horror. “Ten?! In the morning?!”

“Well, yeah,” Ron laughed as Hermione leapt out of the bed and frantically changed out of her pajamas, leaving them pooled on the floor as she dressed in last night’s clothes. “In a hurry, I take it?”

“I was meant to be home hours ago!” Hermione shoved her feet into her shoes, sloppily tying the laces. “My parents will be awake by now, I need to go!”

Ron opened his mouth to respond but before he could get a word out, Hermione had smashed a kiss onto his cheek and bolted from the room.

The second Hermione materialized in her childhood bedroom, she knew it was a mistake; her magical mode of transport brought her there with a loud crack that she could only hope her parents might mistake for a car backfiring. In a last-ditch effort to keep up any sort of appearance that she might have slept at home, Hermione changed into a pair of pajamas and strolled slowly out of the room, hoping that her parents might have simply allowed her to have a lie-in that morning.

But there was no such luck. Simon and Mary Granger were waiting patiently outside of her bedroom door, arms folded over their chests, eyeing their daughter with unsettlingly calm curiosity.

“Morning,” Hermione said with a polite smile. There was still a slight shadow of a chance that they might simply be coming to see what she’d like for breakfast.

“Oh, is that it?” asked her mother, causing Hermione to stop in her tracks. “You’re not planning to tell us where you’ve been all night?”

“Hermione, we’ve been worried sick,” her father added, a bit more composed. “You weren’t here when we came back, you didn’t leave a note, we have no way of contacting you-”

 _To hell with it._ She had already told them so much about the past year that spending the night at Ron’s house seemed trivial in comparison. “Do you want to know where I was?” she challenged. “I was at Ron’s house. I stayed there last night. I actually stay there a lot, I sneak out and you can’t tell because I use magic to hide it.”

There was a pause so heavy and swelling that Hermione thought for a second it might swallow her up. Her parents studied her, curious, but without any hint of anger.

“That’s really all you did? You just went to Ron’s house?” Mary clarified, regarding her daughter as though there was something she was missing.

“Yes,” Hermione stated stubbornly. “And I don’t think you should have a problem with it, I’m nineteen and I’ve already lived on my own for a year.”

“Hermione,” said Mary with a touch of impatience, “the problem is not with Ron. It's not about him at all.”

Hermione looked over at her father; he stood against the wall, silent, watching everything unfold.

“So what is it, then? Because I told you everything the other day-“

“I know you did. But there is so much of your life that we've missed out on, so much we can never be a part of or even understand. We just want to be as much a part of it as we can.”

This exchange was not exactly the dramatic fight that Hermione had been expecting upon her arrival home. She saw no anger when she looked at her parents, only concern, only sadness. She was their only child and yet, deep down in her veins, she was radically different from them. She would likely marry into a magical family, send her own kids to Hogwarts, work for the Ministry of Magic. There would always be a rift between them, but it didn't need to be any bigger than it already was.

“And I'm sure you can understand,” added Simon, “why it worries us when you vanish in the middle of the night.”

“I shouldn't have done that,” Hermione conceded. “I'm sorry that I didn't tell you where I was going.”

“But not sorry that you left,” Mary observed, rather correctly.

“It's just - I'm nineteen, Mum-”

“I know that, and I'm not naive. Just tell us that you're leaving next time.”

Once again, over breakfast, Hermione ended up confessing everything: how, since their return to Australia, she had spent most of the summer sneaking out to see Ron, how he wasn't returning to Hogwarts in January, all of it. She thought it might be embarrassing or awkward to discuss this sort of thing with her parents, but they didn't seem to mind. In the past, they had always encouraged her independence and that didn't appear to change; they just didn't want to lose her entirely.

And that, Hermione supposed, she could understand.

•••

“You know, this is very inconvenient for me, you lot not coming back to Hogwarts,” Ginny griped from her seat in the armchair, shooting an annoyed glare at Ron and Harry. “I'm going to have to hold emergency tryouts.”

New Year's Eve had arrived. The usual four of them - Hermione, Ron, Harry, and Ginny - had opted to spend the holiday holed up at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, watching snow drift past the window. Ginny had taken it upon herself to prepare a large batch of mulled wine, the consumption of which had made the group particularly loose and relaxed. Hermione had joined Ron on the overstuffed sofa, her toes tucked under his thigh to keep warm.

“You have a reserve Keeper,” Ron argued with a lazy wave of his wand. “It's not my fault.”

“Yeah, but no reserve Seeker,” said Ginny, bumping the heel of her foot into the shoulder of Harry, who sat on the floor in front of her. “Everyone was too scared to try out against this git.”

“All the better that I'm leaving, then,” said Harry. “Gives those other kids a chance.”

“But with you, I know you're actually good.”

“So are you saying you won't miss my impeccable Keeping skills?” Ron asked his sister, grinning widely.

Ginny pretended not to hear him and nudged Harry with her foot again. “I just don't want to hold tryouts in the snow, okay?”

“We all know you're going to hold practice three times a week in the snow, so I don't see the difference,” Harry replied. “May as well weed out the ones who can't handle it.”

Ron turned to face Hermione and poked her on the knee. “You're quiet,” he observed in a low voice.

“I'm tired,” she explained. “We were up late last night.”

The letters confirming that Harry and Ron's extraordinary circumstances had qualified them for Auror training had arrived the previous day. Nobody had been terribly surprised by this - Ron had joked that Harry need only put his name on his application in order to qualify - but he and Hermione had done some very private celebrating all the same. She had then spent most of the day shopping in London with her mum until the snowfall began, so by the time she arrived at Grimmauld Place, she was more interested in the comfort of Ron's bed. After all, she only had a handful of nights left to spend with him.

“You've got to stay up until midnight, though,” said Ron, “because we have to have a New Year’s kiss.”

Smiling warmly at him, Hermione inched herself closer. Most people wouldn't have suspected that he would be the romantic one in a relationship, but it hadn't really surprised her. He had the biggest heart of anyone she knew.

“Couldn't we just kiss now and pretend it's midnight?”

“We could, but where's the fun in that?”

Hermione leaned forward to catch his lips with hers anyway, then shifted around so that she could rest against his shoulder. There was only another hour or so remaining in 1998, so she was content to spend it just like this, watching the three of them squabble over Quidditch. It was a miracle that all of them were here, anyway, given the way that the year had unfolded. Twelve months ago, Hermione had thought that she would never be with Ron, and Harry had grown more obsessed with finding the Deathly Hallows and less interested in destroying Horcruxes by the day, and there were plenty of times when Hermione had all but completely given up. And yet here they were.

“You could play Seeker,” Harry was saying to Ginny, “and use one of your reserve Chasers.”

“But if there's a recruiter there, they’ll be expecting me to play Chaser,” said Ginny. “You really should have thought about this before you decided to go off saving the world again.”

“You know what, you're right,” Harry quipped back. “Let me just write to the Minister of Magic and tell him I've changed my mind.”

“Why don't you try out for the Quidditch team?” Ron joked to Hermione, squeezing her knee with a large hand.

“Yeah, maybe I will,” Hermione snapped back sarcastically. “And maybe you should adopt an acromantula for a pet.”

And so the night wore on, the wine taking hold in their systems, their laughter filling the air, the crackling fireplace keeping them warm. It wouldn't always be easy like this. The coming year would bring more responsibility and more obstacles, but at least tonight they could be carefree in a way that the past seven years had rarely allowed. There was no insurmountable threat hanging over them, no life-threatening danger, just the rest of their lives ahead of them.

At the very moment that the clock on the mantle struck midnight, Ron pulled Hermione toward him, Harry and Ginny's presence be damned, and placed a soft kiss on her lips, the sort of kiss that told her he wanted a hundred more New Year’s Eve nights just like this one. And then, because Harry and Ginny seemed to want to be alone, Hermione bade them goodnight and led Ron up to his own room.

“I'm suddenly not tired anymore,” Hermione said coyly, gripping the sides of Ron's jumper and angling her face up to kiss him.

He happily obliged her, tightening his arms around her so that she popped up off off her feet. One by one, articles of clothing dropped to the floor, hands running along flushed skin, lips traveling to exactly the right places on each other's bodies. They fell onto the bed, shoving blankets out of the way, and soon Hermione was opening her legs and Ron was driving inside her. He wasn't trying to be gentle tonight and she didn't want him to be; she just wanted to feel him as much as she could. Their lives were on the brink of drastically changing, but before they did, she wanted to seize every second of what they already had.

When their bodies separated, Ron placing a soft, wet kiss on her lips, a lump grew in Hermione's throat. She used his wand to clean them both up a bit, and Ron fetched the rumpled duvet from the foot of the bed, arranging it lovingly around her. As she usually did, Hermione nestled against his side, her head on his chest.

“I love you.” Ron sounded half-asleep as he touched his lips to her forehead. “I love you so much.”

Being with Ron was so much more than Hermione had ever expected. It constantly amazed her that they could lose themselves in passion and lust and utter need for each other, and then in the next moment, he was incredibly tender and sweet; they still bickered and debated and drove everyone around them spare, but she also knew she could lie in his arms and tell him anything and everything on her mind. But as in love with him as she was, she didn't want to sacrifice herself to her relationship. She was always independent, and she was not the sort of person who cried because she missed her boyfriend.

“I - I love you too,” Hermione replied, her voice hoarse, one determined tear dripping onto his bare chest.

“Are you okay?” Ron asked, running a hand over her hair. “What's wrong?”

“I’m fine,” she sniffled, realizing as she did that it was hardly going to convince him to believe her.

“No, you're not. What's up?”

“I'm just being stupid.”

“You've never been stupid in your life,” said Ron. “Is everything okay?”

“I was just thinking about how much it's all going to change when I leave on Sunday,” she confessed, studying a particularly concentrated patch of freckles on his chest. “I know we’ll be fine but when I think about not seeing you every day-”

“Ooh, don't say things like that,” Ron interrupted, “or I'm going to want to go back with you.”

“But that's just the thing, we both have things we need to do now and so - so we should do them. And we shouldn't feel bad about it,” Hermione stated, trying to convince herself as well as Ron. “I don't know why I'm acting like it's the end of the world, I'll survive without you.”

“Thanks,” Ron said dryly. “Look, not that I want you to be upset, but - I mean, we make each other happy, right? I know you make me happy.”

“Right…”

“Right. So the fact that you feel this way, it doesn't make you - I know what you're worried about,” he said confidently. “You don't want to be the sort of girl whose life revolves around her boyfriend. And I promise you, you're not.” He touched his lips lightly to her hair. “And I wouldn't want you to be, either, that's not the person I fell in love with.”

Hermione nodded thoughtfully, her chin pushing into his chest. “So then why do I feel like this?”

“Well…” He was smiling; Hermione didn't have to look at him to know that. “I reckon I'm just that good in bed-”

“Oh, stop!” she laughed, poking him firmly on the shoulder.

“It's true though, right?” Ron tightened his arm around her shoulders and tipped her onto her back, placing a soft kiss on her neck. “I at least know what you like…” His mouth trailed over the column of her throat as he ran a hand up her side. “Like when I do this…” He cupped a hand over her breast; Hermione sighed at the contact.

“Ron,” she breathed, winding her arms around his neck. He had a way of making her mind go blank in the very best way, and she welcomed it tonight.

“Hmm?” He nibbled on the skin covering her collarbone.

“No more talking.”

•••

It didn’t have to be a big deal, Hermione told herself as she stepped onto Platform 9 ¾. Nevermind that she had - as much as she had tried to resist it - grown blissfully accustomed to seeing Ron every day, to falling asleep with the warmth of his skin on hers. Nevermind that she genuinely had never experienced Hogwarts without him; she could handle this. She was nineteen, she was Head Girl, and it wasn’t as though she was never going to see Ron again. In the grand scheme of things, these weeks were almost negligible, bound to pass by in the blink of an eye.

And yet, now that the moment was upon them, an awful sense of dread fell over her at the unpleasant reality before them.

“This is weird,” Ron commented, leaning back against a brick pillar and studying the scarlet train before him. “It’s strange to be here and not be getting on the train.”

“Good though, right?” asked Hermione from beside him.

“It is,” he confirmed, sounding sheepish in his admission. “And you know, you could always apply to be an Auror too, you’ve got until the end of the day and we’d be lucky to have you-

“You know I don’t want to be an Auror.”

“Yeah, I know, I’m just joking with you.” He turned, rather suddenly, and hugged her, one hand on her hair and the other splayed against her back. “I’m just really going to miss you.”

“It’s going to be fine,” Hermione stated firmly into the woolen fabric of his cloak. “It’s only a few weeks, that’s nothing.”

But if it were truly nothing, Hermione wouldn’t have locked her arms around his waist like this, she wouldn’t be trying to memorize the way his fingertips grazed over her hair, she wouldn’t be wishing for a Time Turner to relive the moment over and over again. She would be treating this like any other day, but nothing about it felt normal.

“When’s the next Hogsmeade trip again?”

“Thirteenth of February,” said Hermione. “Almost Valentine’s Day.”

“We’d better book ourselves a room soon then, before they’re all taken,” Ron chuckled into her ear.

“Because that went so well the last time?”

“Sure it did-“

A long, sharp blast issued from the whistle of the train, signifying one minute until its departure. Hermione leaned back just enough to see the jocular expression slide off of Ron’s face. She stood on tiptoe, pressing her lips against his, trying to pretend like it was just any other kiss, not their last for five weeks.

“I love you,” muttered Ron against her lips. “And I’ll write you every day, I discussed it with Pig and he’s up for the task-“

“I love you too.” Hermione kissed him again, finding him leaning into it. “I’ve got to go, I really can’t miss the train.”

“Mmhmm,” Ron nodded absently, still keeping his lips on hers in a warm, languorous exchange. “Just one more.”

As though through a fog, Hermione heard compartment doors slamming shut and the engine of the train rumbling to life. She had about thirty seconds left, and she wanted every single one of them with him… but being Head Girl, she really, really couldn’t miss the train, and reluctantly she pulled away from him.

“Okay,” Ron breathed, shifting a hand around to cup her face. “I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

“It’ll be here before you know it.”

* * *

 

_Thanks for reading! Please review :)_


	13. Alone Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I definitely didn't mean for this to take as long as it did - I had actually hoped to have this chapter up before Christmas, but real life has had a tendency to get in the way these past few months and given that I never want to post anything that I'm not proud of it, I didn't want to rush anything. So, I'm so so sorry about the wait, please know that I will never abandon this story and I am hoping (but not necessarily promising) that subsequent updates will come a bit more quickly. Additionally, if I haven’t replied to your review, I’m so sorry. Please know that I love and appreciate every single person reading this!
> 
> Anyway, on with it! I hope you like this chapter. Yes, we are getting a bit of a POV change to see how Ron’s dealing with everything...

"So." Ron looked over at Harry, who was still watching the faintest trail of steam from the train curl into oblivion. "What do we do now?"

On the surface, Ron knew how wholly and completely his life had just changed. He still had nearly a week left until Auror training began - a week, his responsibilities at the joke shop notwithstanding, of quasi-freedom, before the true work began. And yet it still hadn't fully sunk in that he would never step foot in Hogwarts again, that he didn't have to worry about things like Potions homework... and that he wouldn't see Hermione for weeks. He had kissed her goodbye, promised to write, told her he loved her, he had watched her go, but still couldn't quite reconcile what the distance would truly mean.

"I don't know," Harry shrugged, wearing a vaguely lost expression that matched how Ron felt. "D'y'wanna go... get a pint, or something?"

"Have we ever done that before?"

Harry shrugged half-heartedly. "What else have we got to do?"

Without an adequate answer to that question - George wasn't expecting Ron at the shop until later that afternoon - they ambled slowly out of King's Cross and made their way to a small Muggle pub halfway between the train station and Grimmauld Place. At just after eleven on a Monday, it was hardly crowded, so they settled themselves on stools at the far corner of the bar. On a television mounted on the wall, Sky Sports was recounting the highlights of a recent match between Chelsea and Manchester United.

"Have you got any Muggle money?" Harry muttered out of the corner of his mouth to Ron, who nodded.

"Yeah, Hermione makes me carry some for emergencies."

"An emergency you can't magic your way out of?"

"Yeah, s'pose," Ron chuckled, double-checking his pockets for the bank notes Hermione had pressed into his palm last summer. "I'm not about to argue with her."

"Must make for a nice change, not arguing," Harry said with a smile.

"Nah, 'cause I kind of like riling her up-"

"Okay, okay, enough," Harry interrupted. "That's going down a road I don't want to go down - er, two beers, please," he added to the bartender, who nodded and drew two glasses from below the bar. "Living with you is quite enough."

"Right, well, you don't have to worry about that for a while," said Ron as a frothy lager was placed in front of him. "When's Easter again?"

"I don't know, April?" Harry picked up his beer and studied it. "Not soon enough, that's when."

"They did say we could come to the Quidditch matches," Ron recalled, sampling the beer. "Not that that's the same."

"Yeah, true. If we can, what with training, and all."

"We'll have weekends free - oh, and I reckon I should tell you," said Ron, watching bubbles rise in his drink. "I'm going to keep working for George. Even after training starts."

Harry, beer halfway to his mouth, paused, brows knitting together. "Seriously?"

"Y-yeah - Hermione and I were looking at the schedules, and I can work for George on the weekends and at night," Ron explained, looking away from Harry toward the television. How Muggles possibly found this sport entertaining, he'd never understand.

"Right," Harry nodded.

"What?"

"No, nothing," said Harry quickly. "That’s good. Y’know, for George.”

Harry’s voice was just a little bit too bright for Ron to take his words at face value.

“But?”

“Well, it’s just, Auror training is supposed to pretty intense, remember Tonks telling us about it at Grimmauld Place? And that was just the regular program, ours is meant to be fast-tracked-“

“Right,” Ron interrupted, “but we looked at the training schedules, it leaves enough time.”

 _Enough time by Hermione’s standards_ , he couldn’t help but think, and that thought suddenly made his stomach churn. Hermione was the girl who had managed to study enough to earn nine Outstandings on her OWLs during their fifth year while secretly co-managing an illegal Defense Against the Dark Arts club and knitting clothing for house elves in her spare time. She was the girl who had wanted to literally add more time to the day just so she could fill it with more work. And he… well, back then, he had also had Quidditch and the DA and prefect duties to worry about, but he certainly hadn’t managed it the way she had.

Of course, he also wasn’t fifteen anymore.

“It’ll be fine,” Ron added decisively. “Besides, the faster the days go, the sooner I can see Hermione again.”

The busier he was, the less time he had to think about her, wonder about her, tell himself to stop worrying about her (because she was Hermione, and she was stronger than anyone else he knew, so of course she was going to be fine). If he was dead tired at night and unconscious the second his head hit the pillow, then he wouldn’t have the chance to miss falling asleep with her in his arms. He needed a packed schedule if he hoped to get through the next six months with even a shred of his sanity left.

“That’s true,” Harry agreed. “But it’s only, what, six weeks until the Hogsmeade weekend?”

“Yeah,” Ron nodded. “Only.”

•••

At first, upon waking, Hermione didn’t even know where she was, just that it was soft, and warm, and that she was alone... but then she recognized Ginny’s breathing, steady and rhythmic and just slightly hoarse, and it hit her at all once: she was back at Hogwarts, in the girls’ dormitory, and Ron was still in London. Knowing him, he was probably still sleeping, or maybe he was going in to the shop with George, or he and Harry were living like bachelors, eating beans on toast for breakfast. All she knew was that he wouldn’t be meeting her in the common room with his usual overabundance of energy and a good morning kiss.

 _You told him not to come back_ , she reminded herself. It was the best thing for him, joining the Aurors and working for George, just as returning to Hogwarts was the best thing for her. Sure, ideally, these things would align, but she supposed that was asking for too much. She was lucky enough that they were both alive, and that they were together, and that would have to be enough for now.

And the six weeks until the Hogsmeade visit was nothing. Between being Head Girl and studying for NEWTs, the time would have to fly by. She needed it to.

The mood in the dormitory was decidedly morose that morning as she and Ginny prepared for their day of classes; neither spoke much, and when they made their way to the Great Hall for breakfast, it was with slow, almost dreading footsteps. As they sat down at the Gryffindor table, eyeing the array of breakfast food almost resentfully, they felt the gaze of every single student upon them - or rather, upon the two glaring absences beside him.

“Was it like this last year?” Hermione asked, absently stirring a bowl of porridge.

“Well...” Ginny, eyes on her plate, was slowly using her fork to turn a stewed tomato into a pile of mush. “It’s different, just because I know he’s okay, and everything, but that doesn’t mean it’s not still… well. I’m sure you know.”

Nodding slowly, Hermione considered this. At least she knew Ron was happy and that he was working toward something, and she would absolutely not allow herself the selfish thought that she wished he had been happy at Hogwarts. It wasn’t fair to him, and it would only make her feel worse.

Everything at Hogwarts just felt so different now. Even before they were friends, even in times when they would row so badly that they weren’t even speaking, Ron was always there. He was always in her peripheral vision, playing hangman with Harry during classes when he should have been taking notes, his long limbs sprawled across the common room floor in front of the fire, his red hair like a beacon everywhere she went. Logically she knew that he was in London, at the moment probably pouring way too much sugar into his tea, but somehow she still kept expecting to see him, like he would come bounding up behind her, kiss her on the cheek, and proceed to eat breakfast with his hand on her knee. Her heart hadn’t been able to accept his absence quite yet.

The mail owls came swooping in, a welcome distraction: if the students were watching for parcels and letters, they wouldn’t be staring at Hermione and Ginny. Just as Hermione was about to utilize the moment to escape to her first class, something greatly resembling a feathery grey tennis ball came tumbling through the air and fell directly into a pitcher of pumpkin juice.

“Pig!” Hermione exclaimed, jumping up to rescue the owl. “What are you doing here?”

The obvious answer, of course, was floating on the surface of the juice; as Hermione used a napkin to dry off the little owl, Ginny retrieved the folded parchment from the pitcher.

Drying it with a wave of her wand, Hermione flattened out the parchment and began to read the blurred words.

_Dear Hermione,_

_You only left a few hours ago, but I miss you like hell already and just thought I’d write you. Not that much has happened since you left, though Harry and I did go to a Muggle pub and that emergency Muggle money you make me carry finally got put to use. Not that it was an emergency, I think we just sort of wanted to take our minds off of everything. To be honest, it didn’t really help._

_I'm meant to meet George at the shop in a few minutes so I don’t have a ton of time. I told Harry about my plan to work two jobs and I reckon he secretly thinks it’s barmy but I know it’ll be okay. If you think I can do it, that’s all I need._

_I should get going. I hope you have a good first day of classes, I can only imagine how much free time you’ll have without me trying to distract you._

_Confession? Part of me wishes I was still there to distract you. You were the only good thing about being there, and I reckon I know I shouldn’t have stayed, but… fuck, I think I just miss you._

_Anyway. George is surprisingly punctual and I don’t even know where Pig is right now, so I’ll just tell you that I love you, and I can’t wait to see you again. And since I’m not there to remind you, please make sure to put down the books and eat dinner._

_Love,_

_Ron_

If not for Pigwidgeon’s distressed sputtering on the table, Hermione might have stared at the ink on the page forever, studying the way his words slanted across the parchment, trying to commit them to memory, hear them in his voice - but as it was, she had more pressing matters.

“He’s not looking so good,” Ginny commented with concern as she picked up Pigwidgeon, who appeared to be so exhausted that his wings were trembling. “That’s a long trip, from London to here, and I bet you Ron told him to hurry, the git-”

“Give him to me,” Hermione interrupted her. “I’ll bring him to Hagrid at lunch, he’ll know what to do.”

“And in the meantime?”

Hermione accepted the owl from Ginny and, cupping him protectively in her hands, peered down at her book bag. It wasn’t as if she could just leave him in the Great Hall, and she wouldn’t dare risk sending him to the owlery, as he would wear himself out further trying to show off for the other owls. Her dormitory was hardly an option - the presence of Crookshanks would only stress the owl out even further. The way she saw it, there was nothing else to be done.

Using the baggy sleeve of her robe to shield Pigwidgeon from view, she bent and surreptitiously opened her book bag. Atop a stack of textbooks sat her cauldron, and she deposited Pigwidgeon inside.

“Stay there, all right?” Hermione whispered to him as Ginny watched on in disbelief. “It’ll only be a few classes, you’ll be okay.”

“You can’t honestly be bringing an owl to class,” said Ginny as Pigwidgeon gave a soft, weary hoot.

“Why can’t I?” Hermione hissed back. “No one’s going to know I have him, and what else am I supposed to do? Let him suffer?”

“No, of course not,” replied Ginny, suppressing a grin. “I just expected better behavior from you, now Harry and Ron are gone.”

She could almost picture their reactions now: Harry would probably be a bit exasperated, but Ron… Ron would take on that old familiar glimmer of pride and awe in his eyes, the same one he’d had when she showed him the Undetectable Extension Charm on her beaded bag or even back when she had slapped Draco Malfoy. Now that she thought on it a bit, Ron would probably offer to skive off class to bring Pigwidgeon to Hagrid… if he was there.

But he wasn’t, so Hermione cast a quick Cushioning Charm on the inside of the cauldron to keep Pigwidgeon from being jostled and gently brought the book bag onto her lap.

“They weren’t as bad of influences as we thought,” she said to Ginny. “Anyway, I’ve got Ancient Runes in a few minutes, I’ll see you in Potions.”

Hermione’s stowaway behaved himself during her first class of the new term, and she was able to use a spare cauldron from the cupboard during Potions, but by the time she and Ginny were crossing the half-frozen grounds to the Herbology greenhouses, the owl had grown impatient with his new surroundings.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione whispered to him under the pretense of fishing her textbook out of her bag, sitting down at the long wooden table in the middle of Greenhouse Four. “We’ll be done soon.”

Pigwidgeon regarded her for a moment, and then tucked his head back under his wing. As Hermione set her bag gently down on the ground beside her stool, Dean Thomas sat down next to her and set his own book on the table.

“So did you have a good holiday?” he asked her amiably, giving a friendly nod to Ginny across the table.

“Oh, yes, it was-” A small, high-pitched hoot sounded from inside her book bag, momentarily freezing her voice. “It was nice-” Another hoot, this one louder, longer, more irritated. “What about you?” she added quickly. “Did you see Seamus?”

“Oh yeah, we actually went over to Ireland to see his mum-” As Pigwidgeon voiced his discontent once more, Ginny erupted into a raucous coughing fit. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, fine,” Ginny wheezed, hiding her tomato-colored face behind her hands.

“So you went to Ireland?” Hermione asked, hoping to divert his attention.

“Yeah, we-” Dean paused and quirked an eyebrow. “Can you hear that?”

“Hear what?” said Hermione, hoping to pretend Pigwidgeon’s calls from her book bag simply weren’t happening.

Dean’s eyes slid down toward the ground. “It sounds like-”

“It’s Ron’s owl,” Hermione admitted in a low voice. “You must remember him, he’s tiny, and he’s flown all the way here and he doesn’t seem to have taken the trip well, I’m going to bring him to Hagrid-”

“Of course,” Dean laughed as Professor Sprout bustled into the greenhouse in her usual patched-up hat and soil-stained robes. “Never a dull day with you, is there?”

“No,” Hermione agreed ruefully, “though it might be nice-”

But just then, Professor Sprout began to explain how to harvest the teeth of a Fanged Geranium, and the subject was dropped.

After having been promised of all the Owl Treats his heart desired, Pigwidgeon remained calm during Herbology, and the instant class was dismissed, Hermione headed straight across the school grounds to Hagrid’s hut. From the chimney of the small round house, a thick grey smoke issued against the clear blue sky, and Hermione felt a sharp pang of guilt. She had visited Hagrid with Ron and Harry last term, but probably not as often as they could have done.

“Hermione!” Hagrid greeted her with a warm smile when he opened the door, Fang just behind him. “C’mon on in, c’mon in, good t’ see yeh - what’re yeh doing here?” he asked suddenly as he stepped back to allow her access. “Yeh’ve got class soon, haven’ yeh?”

“I know, I’m sorry I can’t stay longer,” said Hermione as she opened up her book bag. “But I’m worried about Pigwidgeon…”

And, extracting the owl from inside her cauldron, she explained the situation.

“I reckon he’s gettin’ on in years,” Hagrid said, holding Pigwidgeon in the palm of his massive hand. “But I’ve got a tonic that should set ‘im right.”

Hermione seated herself in an oversized chair at the table as Hagrid set Pigwidgeon down and began bustling about the kitchen, setting a kettle on the iron stove and searching through the cupboards. Ambling over on large, muddy paws, Fang rested his head on Hermione’s knee.

“So,” Hagrid said, coming up with a small brown bottle and a small saucer. “Ron an’ Harry’ve stayed back, have they?”

“Yes,” Hermione replied, not bothering to keep the sadness out of her voice. It was Hagrid she was talking to, after all. “They start Auror training next week.”

“Ahh, well.” Hagrid joined her at the table and tipped a bit of clear liquid out of the bottle into the saucer. “They’re doin’ the righ’ thing, aren’ they? Bein’ Aurors.”

Absentmindedly scratching Fang behind his ears, Hermione watched Pigwidgeon dip his beak into the tonic.

“I think they'll be happier than when they were here,” she admitted, suddenly finding that Ron’s owl - the one who flew up to the Hogwarts Express at the end of their third year, the one who Ron constantly called a feathery little git - blurred before her eyes. It was painful to think of how much Ron hadn’t wanted to be at school, how it brought back the worst memories of his life, and that she’d been complicit in it, not realizing the depths of his feelings… and yet he’d still been willing to stay for her.

“I know it’s hard,” Hagrid said gently, “bein’ so far apart, but yeh’ve already made it through so much with him.”

“I know,” said Hermione as the tea kettle started to whistle, “I know that, and it isn’t forever.”

But then she thought of the words in Ron’s letter - _I already miss you like hell_ \- and how she’d woken up that morning expecting to be beside him, only to find herself in a single bed, and knew that it was already feeling like an eternity. Suddenly she might have been fourteen all over again, crying into mixing-bowl-sized mugs of tea in Hagrid’s hut because Ron thought that her pet had eaten his. Back then she’d been heartbroken over losing her two closest friends, and now, it wasn’t so much that she needed Ron there, but that she still desperately wished he was.

“We just have things we need to be doing right now,” Hermione continued on, reassuring herself aloud as Hagrid rose to tend to the tea. “I’m not sure if you know, not many people do, but Ron’s helping George now too, to reopen the shop.”

“Tha’s brilliant!” The tea sloshed over the edges of the cups as Hagrid plunked them on the table. “Fred woulda liked that, I reckon, Ron steppin’ in an’ bein’ there for George.”

“He’s really excited about it,” Hermione said, deciding she’d give the tea a second to cool down, “he's doing that and the Aurors, he wanted to do both - well, it was my idea for him to actually do both, and not have to decide right away… but he’s excited about it.”

“As long as he keeps ‘is head on straight,” replied Hagrid sagely. “I’d hate to see ‘im overwhelming ‘imself like you used to do - like yeh better not still be doin’.” He gave Hermione an uncharacteristically stern look over the top of his mug.

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know yeh can, but without Ron here to balance you out, I don’t want to see yeh goin’ overboard.”

On the table, Pigwidgeon straightened up and stretched out his wings, clearly revitalized.

“I’ll be fine,” Hermione insisted, recalling as she did so that she had actually been planning to throw herself into her work as a method of distraction, as a way of forcing the days to pass.

But again, she wasn’t fourteen anymore. After the events of the past year, she could more than handle a full schedule.

“Pig’ll be all righ’,” Hagrid said as the owl fluttered over to Hermione and clicked his beak at her. “But he shouldn’ be makin’ such a long trip all the time, the pair of yeh’ll have to use the school owls.”

“Thanks, Hagrid.” Pig clicked his beak at Hermione again. “Erm - have you got any Owl Treats?”

•••

_Dear Ron,_

_I’m sending Pigwidgeon back with this letter, but after that I’ll send another along with a school owl, because Pig didn’t do so well with the trip here - he was exhausted, I had to bring him to Hagrid, who said he shouldn’t be making such a long trip all the time. I also brought him to three of my classes, but that’s a story for another time._

_The first day was fine, even though it’s so strange not having you here to distract me. But don’t worry. I’m glad that you’re doing everything that you’re doing, and we can handle the distance. Gryffindor have a match in February against Hufflepuff - Ginny spent all of dinner going on about it - and the visit in Hogsmeade is the weekend before that, so we’ll see each other again before we know it. Other than that, there’s not much to tell, except that I have no one to share my notes with anymore._

_You’ll have to tell me all about the shop, and training too, once it starts. You’re going to be brilliant, I know it. You’re exactly where you need to be, and I’m where I need to be, and someday - and soon - those places will be the same. Until then, I love you and I miss you so much already. I can’t wait for February._

_Love,_

_Hermione_

After rolling up the letter and magically sealing it, Hermione stood up from her favorite desk at the library and set out for the owlery. Pigwidgeon had, only after eating his fill of treats, been all too eager to fly up to the tower, and Hermione had attended the remainder of her classes without incident. Now, as it was nearly curfew, she supposed she had better leave before Madam Pince kicked her out.

The castle was quiet and dark as Hermione slowly traversed the familiar corridors, finding herself in absolutely no rush to return to her dorm and spend another night alone. The Head Girl badge pinned to her robes guaranteed that she could move about as she pleased, whenever she pleased, but the long trip up to the owlery created an inadvertent tour of the castle that Hermione would have preferred to avoid.

When Ron had been there, Hermione had been able to look past the haunted memories, the loss and the heartbreak and disaster, because she thought she belonged at Hogwarts. Now, though, climbing the spiral staircase to the owlery to seek out Pigwidgeon, she knew that was no longer the case. Back on September first, she had thought that returning to school had given her the sense of coming home, but it hadn’t been the castle at all.

It had been Ron; he was her home. And now he was in London, and she was here in Scotland’s most heavily guarded building, magical or otherwise, and nothing was the same anymore. She still wanted to finish her education, to ace her NEWTs, to be Head Girl, but she hadn’t understood just how much her life had changed it until she was forced to confront it, gazing out of the owlery window at the inky-black, star-studded sky.

“Take this to Ron,” Hermione told Pigwidgeon, securing the letter to his leg with a length of string. “And then stay with him, all right?”

He soared excitedly out into the night, and Hermione watched him fly away until she could no longer distinguish him in the darkness.

When she returned back to Gryffindor tower, she found Ginny holding court in the common room, evidently discussing the urgency of filling the gaps on her Quidditch team with the entire house. As students crowded around a long scroll of parchment on a table in front of Ginny, presumably signing up for team trials later in the week, Hermione took the opportunity to slip up the staircase to the boys’ dormitory.

The room designated for Eighth Year students still remained at the end of the hall, and Hermione found it blessedly empty when she tentatively pushed through the door. Three beds were still arranged neatly in the room, though only Dean’s had been slept in, and Hermione walked over to the one designated for Ron. Memories flooded her mind without warning: sneaking up here during lunch breaks; trying to alleviate his Quidditch-induced anxiety; sitting atop the mattress during sixth year as she watched Harry take the Felix Felicis; even charging in during the Christmas hols to give Ron and Harry their gifts.

As she walked to the head of the bed and slid open the curtain, intent merely on retrieving his pillow, a small etching on the bedframe caught her eye. At the base of one of the four posts around the bed, Hermione saw _RW + HG_ carved into the wood in Ron’s unmistakable handwriting. Reaching out carefully, as though the letters might disappear, Hermione traced her fingertips over them.

When had he done this? Was it upon their return in September, or after the final battle in May? Had he done it before he left for Christmas, already knowing that he likely would never return, and wanting to cement their relationship into the history of Hogwarts?

She almost didn’t want to know: all that mattered was that he’d done it at all.

Snatching up the pillow, Hermione left the dormitory and hurried down the stairs, through the common room - still crowded due to Quidditch-related business - and up to her own dormitory. The first day had drained her in every possible way, so she changed into her pajamas, tossed her own pillow to the floor, and settled into bed with Ron’s, ready to once again drift off with the scent of his hair in her nose.

But the Hogwarts elves, ever diligent, had clearly reached the bedclothes first. Rather than a certain familiar, comforting, undefinable essence, Hermione was met with a strong scent of soap, nothing more and nothing less.

It didn’t smell like Ron at all anymore.

* * *

 

_Thanks for reading! Please review :)_


	14. Valentine’s Day

"I'm sorry," Ron repeated for the third time that night to the small, petulant owl glaring at him across the table. "Don't take it personally, all right? It's for your own good."

Beside Pigwidgeon sat a nameless and extremely patient Great Horned owl, whose yellow eyes glowed in the quasi-darkness of the basement kitchen. The house was eerily quiet, Harry presumably having gone to bed hours ago, but Ron felt wide awake as he skimmed over the words he had scrawled onto the parchment.

Writing to Hermione was more difficult than he realized. It had been easy, during summer holidays from Hogwarts, to simply send her a letter inviting her to the Quidditch World Cup, or Grimmauld Place, or the Burrow, and he really hadn't needed to think about it. Now, though, when he missed her so much it was like a weight in his stomach, there was no way he could possibly convey that in words. There wasn't much he was allowed to tell her about Auror training - not in writing, anyway. Things at the shop had gone into overdrive, Ron's presence having galvanized George's ambitions for reopening, and now the place would be open for business by the first of February. That night he'd been there late, repairing shelves that had been all but ruined by Death Eaters all those months ago, and now, he saw as he glanced at his watch, it was nearly two in the morning.

Deep down, he knew Hermione would understand if he didn't write her every night, but he wanted to. Even if the words on the parchment couldn't come close to accurately expressing how he felt, it was the only way he could even attempt to feel close to her. Looking back, he had hardly capitalized on the opportunity of actually being at Hogwarts with Hermione, miserable in the actual castle as he was. He had seen her every single day, kissed her goodnight, occasionally found moments to sneak up to his dorm (not that they'd all gone exactly to plan, but it had happened), but there was still so much he had missed. He had been so worried about trivial things like Quidditch and so busy trying not to think about the fact that he lived in the building where his brother had died, that he hadn't appreciated how lucky he was just to be with Hermione at all.

He appreciated it now, of course, but it was a bit too late, and now all he could do was write to her.

"Stop looking at me like that," he hissed to Pigwidgeon as he tied his letter to the leg of the Great Horned owl. "You're in retirement now. We've discussed this."

It would have been nice, thought the side of Ron that had only slept seven hours over the past two nights, if Harry would go ahead and replace Hedwig already, even though Ron knew it wasn't that simple. They were both taking advantage of the Hogwarts owls, and it meant that Ron had to spend most nights contending with a very fussy and insulted Pigwidgeon.

As if he had time for one-sided debates with an animal who could fit inside his palm.

"Thank you," Ron added to the Hogwarts owl, carrying him over to the fireplace. "Reckon you can get there by morning?"

The owl took off up the chimney without a backward glance, and Ron stared around the kitchen. His bed would be cold and empty and enormous without Hermione in it, but he had no other choice. With a casual wave of his wand, he extinguished the lantern in the corner of the room and made his way upstairs.

•••

The sky was still dark when Ron's wand let out a sharp blast like a bell, and it took a moment for him to orient himself. Somehow he had ended up sprawled across the middle of the bed on his stomach, one foot hanging off the end of the mattress, and it occurred to him, as his wand continued to chime in his ear, how big this bed really was. He had grown so accustomed to the Hogwarts dorms, to the bottom bunk of a tent, and then sharing with Hermione, that to have so much to himself still didn't feel right. The weeks since her departure should have acclimated him to this new solitude, but he had never been the sort of person who had anything to himself, and he wasn't sure this was how he wanted to start.

" _Finite_ ," he muttered to the wand, which silenced itself at once. His head felt wrapped in cotton as he hauled himself out of bed and fumbled around in the dark for his trainee Auror robes. Showering, he thought with a slight cringe, would just have to take a backseat to last-minute revision.

Down in the basement kitchen (it felt as though he'd hardly left), he re-lit the lantern from earlier, toasted a slice of bread with his wand, and dumped a generous portion of tinned beans on top of it. His mum would likely go spare if she saw the way he ate lately; though he and Harry had a standing invitation for dinner at the Burrow, he ended up eating takeaway fish and chips with George at the shop most nights.

He sat down at the table and cracked open his textbook to the chapter on antidotes. Elbows on the table, the fingers of his left hand sunk deep into his hair, he began to read, to commit to memory the processes by which antidotes were derived, the many horrific potions on which a bezoar would have no effect (a thought which still, years later, made his stomach turn), the theory behind Golpalott's Third Law. Studying was easier now than it had been at Hogwarts, most notably because he wasn't trying to sneak glances at Hermione when he thought she wasn't looking, but also because now, he knew why he was doing it. He was working toward something now, and if he was going to be an Auror, he wanted to be a damn good one. He didn't want any question as to how he had earned a place in the program, he didn't want any suspicion of favoritism for Harry Potter and his friends. He was going to prove that he deserved to be there, and he was going to learn these bloody antidotes if it was the last thing he did.

Sunlight was just beginning to stream in through the dingy basement windows when Harry padded into the kitchen, looking irritatingly well-rested.

"Morning, Hermione," he quipped, pinching his lips together in a clear attempt to keep from smiling.

Ron picked his head up from his hand and rolled his eyes. "Don't I wish."

Harry gave a small nod of sympathy and picked up the half-empty tin of beans from the work surface, peering curiously inside to study its contents. "When'd you get back last night?"

"Dunno," Ron muttered. "Late. And I wanted to write back to Hermione right away, so she'd get the letter by breakfast."

"Right," Harry nodded. "Are you going to finish these?" He held up the tin.

"Er, no, you can have them," Ron replied. He'd barely touched his own, so engrossed he had become in his book, and he thought to himself that he must have really missed Hermione if he was channeling her like this.

As it tended to do, his mind wandered to her, wondering what she was doing, if she was spending her morning the way he was - rising before dawn to pore over a textbook, the sort of behavior he used to insist was indecent in anyone but her. And he just hoped that she wasn't living like him, that she was sleeping, that she was eating. For the first few days after Hermione had left, he had been on the point of mentioning it to Ginny, but he had gathered from Harry that she was deepl y entrenched in captaining the Quidditch team, and he thought the words might fall on deaf ears.

He had always been the one to balance her out, the one to make her laugh when she was stressed or nick her a sandwich from the kitchens when she was too absorbed in a book to bother with dinner - and she had done the same for him, really. She was the one to pull him out of his own head when he was lost in anxiety over a Quidditch match, she could match his stubbornness with her own, and now that was gone.

Not gone, he told himself firmly, watching Harry prepare his own piece of toast. There was just more distance now, only one method of communication, no opportunities to touch her, but it wasn't gone. It was just different right now.

And he needed to stop being so dramatic about it, he decided. There was no use approaching it like she had gone halfway round the world for the next three years. He would see Hermione in a few short weeks, and in the meantime, they both had things they needed to do.

"Oh, so, anyway," Harry piped up with far too much eagerness for such an early hour, licking tomato sauce off his thumb, "I was talking to Robards last night, after you left for the shop, and he said - well, actually, first he told me that you got the top grade on the Concealment and Disguise exam - but after that, he was saying he wants us to do this field training thing for a day."

"Both of us?"

"Well, yeah," said Harry. "I mean, everyone'll have to do one eventually but they want us to go first, since we've got - y'know - the most experience. It's supposed to be a Saturday, sometime next month. Which-" he cringed- "I just hope isn't the same day as any of the Hogwarts visits."

"Yeah," Ron agreed fervently, "yeah, me too."

•••

A sharp blast of cold air struck Hermione's skin, jolting her out of a deep sleep, and her eyes popped open to see Ginny standing at her bedside, the crimson duvet clutched in her fist.

"Wake up!"

Hermione groaned and closed her eyes again. The grayish blue light streaming in from the window indicated that it was just barely dawn, and as Hermione had stayed up late reading her Arithmancy textbook by the light of her wand, it felt as though she'd only just fallen asleep.

"Come on, get up," Ginny insisted, now kneeling next to Hermione on the bed to make the mattress bounce. "The sooner you get up, the sooner we'll be in Hogsmeade."

"No, that's not how it works." With a great effort, Hermione planted her hands on the bed and forced herself to sit up. "The trip is from eleven until five, that isn't changing."

"You're Head Girl," said Ginny. "You can't pull some strings?"

"It doesn't matter," said Hermione. "Ron's working at the shop today until eleven, anyway."

"Harry's not." When Hermione remained silent, Ginny scowled at her and tossed the duvet back onto her legs. "Oh, fine. Go back to sleep, then."

But now that she was awake, and thinking about Ron, there was no way Hermione could fall back asleep. In just a few hours, she'd finally see him. She wasn't foolish enough to book a room at the Three Broomsticks again, particularly not with most of the student population roaming the village, but she could still find some way - a less headline-worthy way - of spending time alone with him.

"I could read, I suppose," Hermione mused aloud, looking to the Arithmancy book still on her bedside table.

"And I've got a match next weekend, I should get ready for it."

Clambering off Hermione's bed, Ginny pulled a set of complicated-looking diagrams from her bookbag and sat down on her own bed. They fell into a comfortable silence, the occasional scratching of a quill and Demelza's quiet breathing the only sounds in the room, but Hermione found that she could no longer focus. It was one thing to submerge herself in work when Ron was days, even weeks away, but now that mere hours stood in her way, he was all she could think about. She read the same lines over and over again because every word made her think of him, her imaginative mind crafting scenarios for the day ahead.

Ginny, it seemed, was experiencing the same struggle to concentrate, because it wasn't long before she tossed down her playbook and stood on bare feet.

"I'm going to shower," she declared. "I can't think about any of this today."

Indeed, the hours until the walk into the village dragged so slowly that Hermione thought the hands on the clock must have been mocking her. As Head Girl, the responsibility to guide the students safely out of the castle fell to her, but the moment their feet hit High Street, the afternoon was hers to enjoy.

"Quick, let's grab a table," said Ginny, striding quickly toward the Three Broomsticks. "Before all the good ones have gone."

As they were some of the first patrons in the pub, they secured a large, round booth near the hearth and settled in, stripping off gloves and overcoats as they scanned for familiar faces. Hermione was just about to reach for her money bag so she could purchase the first round of butterbeers when Harry - and just Harry - came strolling in. His eyes fell on them immediately and he hurried over, sliding into the booth and kissing Ginny exuberantly in greeting.

"Where's Ron?" Hermione asked impatiently when they had come up for air.

"Don't know," Harry shrugged, nonchalant. "We were just planning to meet here, since he's working. I'm sure he'll be here in a minute."

"Yeah." Hermione agreed quickly. "Yes, I'm sure he will."

"Anyway," Harry said brightly, "first round's on me, I'll be back." He left a noisy, smacking kiss on Ginny’s cheek and scrambled out of the booth. As Ginny trained her eyes on Harry's receding form, Hermione fixed her own on the door. Any second, she knew, it would burst open and he'd finally be there, after weeks of subsisting on letters alone.

Harry set a heavy mug of butterbeer onto the table in front of her as he rejoined them in the booth, but Hermione barely bothered to notice. The pub was filling up now, excited students pooling their Sickles to purchase drinks, the occasional couple who had (wisely) opted to avoid Madam Puddifoot's holding hands upon gleaming polished wood tabletops. Here and there, Hermione picked up on furtive whispers, most of them regarding the presence of Harry, but sometimes she heard her own name, and Ron's too, and she knew they were wondering, as she was, where he could be.

"You're sure he didn't have the time wrong?" Hermione asked Harry, interrupting their study of a complicated Quidditch strategy.

"Positive," replied Harry. "We were talking about it last night, but I didn't see him this morning, he must have left early." Seeing the blood drain from Hermione's face, he quickly continued. "I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation, he wouldn't just not come see you."

"I know that," Hermione snapped back, "but he's nearly forty minutes late, something must have happened."

The thought entered her mind to Disapparate out of Hogwarts and set out searching for him in London, but she immediately dismissed the notion as sheer madness. She was Head Girl, after all. She couldn't spend her day Apparating all over Britain when she was expected to remain in this tiny magical village.

"I'm going to send him a Patronus," she decided, feeling the eyes of her friends on her back as she strode toward the exit of the pub.

Outside, the icy February wind whipped her hair into her face as she drew her wand and pulled a happy memory to the forefront of her mind. They weren't easy to come by; even ones that made her heart burst - memories of waking up next to Ron, of the first time he told her he loved her - were all tinged now with an ache and a longing that grew stronger by the moment.

A wisp of silver shot out of the end of her wand and dissipated into nothingness, and Hermione felt her frustration rise. Harry was right, this was the only spell that ever gave her trouble, and of course she would fail at a time that she truly needed it. She made a few more attempts, but could conjure nothing even remotely resembling an otter, and with her fingertips going numb from the cold, she resigned herself to playing third wheel to Harry and Ginny.

"What'd he say?" asked Ginny brightly when Hermione returned to the booth.

Hermione hesitated - she didn't much fancy admitting to failure - then turned her attention to Harry. "Can you send him one?"

"Er - yeah, sure," agreed Harry, seeming to understand that he had best tread lightly. "Or, you know what, I can go round the shop and check, it'll take five minutes-"

The bells on the pub door jangled violently then, and Hermione's head snapped over to see Ron charging inside. His hair was a disheveled mess, and he still wore the brightly colored robes that identified him as an employee of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes under his coat. As he approached, wending haphazardly through the sea of tables and over-sugared third-years, Hermione spotted a streak of dirt across his cheek.

"I'm so sorry," he stated vehemently, sliding into the booth beside Hermione and urgently pressing his lips to hers; he tasted like soot. "I'm so, so sorry, the shop - I don't know what happened. Well, I do-" Reaching for Hermione's mug of butterbeer, he took a long gulp, and even in his frazzled state, she still found herself observing the bob of his throat, his strong hands gripping the handle of the mug: she had missed him even more than she realized.

"Ron," Hermione interrupted gently, reaching up to wipe the dirt from his skin with the pad of her thumb. "Breathe."

He shook his head as though clearing his mind and sipped the butterbeer again. "A whole wall of shelves came down at the shop - some kid was playing with one of the Weasley Weather products, one of those little tornadoes, only the tornado got loose and took everything down, this was about two minutes before I was planning to leave - and the place was full of customers - I'm so sorry," he concluded. "George knew I really wanted to see you so he let me go-"

"It's okay," Hermione told him honestly, "I'm just glad you're here."

"Yeah, me too." He glanced down at the mug in his hand as though just now noticing it. "Oh, sorry, I'll go get you a new one." With another quick kiss, he headed up to the bar, his knee bouncing as he waited for Madame Rosmerta.

Hermione couldn't stop watching him, partly because she hadn't seen him in weeks, but also because she could rarely recall ever seeing him this wound up. The liquid in the mug trembled as he carried it back to the booth, and as he sat back down, his fingertips drummed rapidly on the tabletop. Nervous energy was pouring out of him, even as Hermione slipped her hand around his and gave it what she hoped was a reassuring squeeze.

"Everything's fine," Ron said, shifting her hand in his so that their fingers interlocked, though his jiggling leg betrayed him. "This day's just been mental, is all."

"Are you sure?"

"Promise."

The pub felt oppressive suddenly; Ron's entrance had been a bit of a dramatic one, and that combined with Harry's presence didn't lend itself to much anonymity. Judging from past experience, there was no way that Ron was going to relax with the cacophony of a busy Saturday blaring at him and overexcited adolescents pointing at their table. As he gulped down the last of his mug of butterbeer, Hermione leaned gently against him, so that their shoulders touched, and he turned to face her. His blue eyes were big, just slightly bigger than usual, and now that she had a moment to really look at him, she saw a few faint smudges of soot by his hairline, the beginnings of dark circles in the sensitive skin below his eyes.

When his knee picked up bouncing again, she decided that enough was enough.

“Let’s go for a walk,” she suggested with half a glance in Harry and Ginny’s direction. They were talking a mile a minute; Hermione only caught the occasional word about recruiters and reserve lineups. It was a conversation Ron probably would have loved to join, had he been able to concentrate on anything.

“Er-“ Ron’s eyes passed briefly over the table, littered with half-empty glasses. “Yeah. All right.”

They bade a quick farewell to Harry and Ginny and made their way out of the pub, Ron’s fingers loosely linked through Hermione’s as he led the way. Rather than start toward Honeyduke’s, or Scrivenshaft’s, or even the Hog’s Head, Hermione tightened her grip on Ron’s hand and headed out of town, away from the castle, in the direction of the train station. The frigid air stole the breath from her lungs, but she moved unhurriedly, leaning into Ron, and not just for warmth.

“Where are we even going?” asked Ron after a second.

“Nowhere, really,” Hermione said. “But we don’t have much time to spend together, and I’d rather be alone.”

“Yeah, I would too.”

“And anyway,” she continued on, “it didn't seem like sitting still was doing you much good.”

Ron sighed, his breath fogging the air. “It would just be my luck, you know, for this to happen today. Everything was going fine before - the shop’s doing brilliant, actually, even with all the kids away at Hogwarts. I can’t even imagine what the summer’s going to be like,” he said as a smile cracked over his face. “Crazier than before, I s’pose.”

“I wish I could see it.”

“I’d say we should Apparate there, but it’s a bit of a wreck right now, and anyway,” he added, the growing twinkle in his eye making Hermione’s heart simultaneously soar and ache, “if we’re Apparating anywhere, it should probably be my bedroom-“

“You know I can’t,” Hermione replied ruefully. “I would if I could-“

“I know, I know.” As their feet crunched over the frozen ground, toward the currently thestral-less carriages that brought students to and from the castle, Ron dropped a kiss onto her hair. “It’s enough just to see you.”

“Is it?”

“Well… no,” he admitted as Hermione laughed and gave a little squeeze to his hand. “But I’ve missed you so much, I - six weeks is a long time-“

“Ron,” she interrupted, looking up at his pinkened cheeks, his hair, which was messy from the wind and just slightly too long, curling around his ears, and felt an old nostalgic pang grip her heart again. It really wasn’t fair, she decided petulantly, to love him this much. “Are you happy?”

His brows knitted together as he turned to face her, their feet still carrying them toward the train station. “I - well - I mean - I don’t know, Hermione, you can’t ask that.”

“Okay, but - but you’re not miserable, are you? You’d tell me if-“

“I would,” he nodded, “and I’m not, not even close. I mean - I don’t sleep much. And I eat a lot of takeaway. And I study, I actually study loads. You should see me,” he grinned, “you’d be so proud-“

“I _am_ proud-“

“And it’s all a lot,” he concluded, as Hermione watched the flush deepen in his cheeks. “But it’s good. I’m glad I’m doing it.”

They had reached the Hogsmeade station platform by now, hardly recognizable without hoards of students, Hagrid corralling first-years, and a scarlet steam engine. It was eerie this way, so quiet that it almost felt abandoned.

“And you were right,” said Ron, pivoting in front of her to take her free hand in his. “It was good to get out of that pub.”

“I know,” Hermione smirked, stepping closer to him. “I don’t think you’d have said all of that in front of Harry and Ginny.”

“Hmm, probably not.”

He dipped his head to kiss her and she rose up on her toes to meet him halfway. Finally, blessedly, they were alone, and she could kiss him the way she really wanted to. She couldn’t do much more, she briefly lamented, but this certainly beat a couple of chaste kisses in a crowded pub.

Ron pulled away and rested his forehead against hers. “Are you sure…” He stole another kiss and pulled away to look at her fully. “That you can’t be Apparating away anywhere?”

“I’m Head Girl.”

“You were Head Girl back in September at the Three Broomsticks, too-“ His eyebrows wiggled suggestively at her.

“Stop-“

“I’m only joking.”

“Sometimes…” Hermione paused; could she admit to him what she hadn’t even truly admitted to herself? Because if she said it aloud, that validated it somehow. It stopped being an irrational, desperate thought and became real.

“What?” he asked, his voice soft.

“Sometimes - and only sometimes,” she felt compelled to clarify, “when I’m tired, or frustrated, or I miss you - I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

It was the sort of thing she hadn’t wanted to let herself think. She didn’t want to link it back to him, to think that she was so codependent on this relationship that she couldn’t handle a little distance, but their relationship was one of the biggest in a long list of things that had changed since the war. She understood now more than ever his frustration back in November when he had told her that being back at Hogwarts felt like a step backwards. Her closest friends, the two people who had always been there, were moving forward… and she was standing still.

"It's not like it's anything... bad," she continued at the inquisitive look on Ron's face. "Everything's fine, but - but that's all it is. It's fine. It just feels like I'm surviving from day to day, and that's it."

Hogwarts had never just been about academics for her. When she was eleven, it had represented a completely new world, a chance to embark on a completely new life. She had made friends, fallen irretrievably in love, led rebellions, learned more than she could ever have dreamed. Every year, despite the increasing danger looming ahead, she had boarded the train with a sort of overflowing anticipation of the year to come, and now... now, she had all but begun a countdown calendar until NEWTs exams began. It no longer felt like her new life - now it just felt like a stop along the way to the life she truly wanted.

"And I reckon I still shouldn't talk you into Apparating home with me and just, y'know, staying there, can I?"

It was more tempting than she wanted to admit. "Please don't try."

"Well," he said with an obvious attempt to imbue his voice with optimism, "you're always saying it's not forever, right? And it's not, it's only a few more months."

"Only," Hermione repeated, not sure how much she believed it.

"It'll go by fast enough," he went on in the same tone, "it'll be the Easter hols soon, and you know after that, term always went by really fast-"

"And next weekend," she recalled suddenly. "You're coming, right, to the match?"

Every muscle in Ron's body froze. "Er..."

"Oh God, what?"

"It's not bad - I mean, yeah, it is bad, but it's not - it's just that, er, remember that field training thing I told you I had to do?" he said, his eyes fixing themselves on a point somewhere past her head. "I found out mine’s that weekend."

"Oh."

"I'm sorry," he added frantically as everything Hermione had envisioned - snuggling up in the stands of the stadium, preferably under a thick blanket, the match dragging on for hours to maximize their time - faded quickly away. "You know if there was anything I could do-"

"No, it's okay." She looked up at him, though he still wasn't making eye contact. "Honestly, don't feel bad. It'll be Easter soon, before we know it."

"Yeah," he shrugged. "Yeah, but I'd rather come see you-"

"And I'd rather Apparate home with you, but it's not an option right now." Her eyes had found his again, blue locked on brown. "We both just have to do what we have to do."

She stood on her toes, intending to kiss him, but paused just as he was closing his eyes.

"You still have dirt on your nose," she pointed out with a smile stretching her lips, reaching a hand up to swipe at the side of his nose.

Ron laughed and dipped his head, kissing her squarely on the lips. "Don't I always."

_Thanks for reading! Please review :)_


	15. What You Said and What You Didn’t Say

If Dean Thomas had been expecting to live in the lap of luxury during his final term at Hogwarts, with a dormitory for three all to himself, he was sorely, sorely mistaken. In the evenings leading up to the match against Ravenclaw, Hermione watched on as Ginny and her Quidditch team trooped up the stairs and into the eighth year boys’ dorm. “It’s easier here than in the locker room,” was Ginny’s reasoning the first time she settled herself onto what had once been Harry’s bed, a thick playbook in her lap. “And it’s less crowded than the common room.”

It wasn’t, really: it hadn’t been that large of a room when occupied by three eighteen-year-olds, and when the entire Gryffindor Quidditch team, along with Hermione and Dean (who was an excellent sport about the whole thing), had crammed themselves inside, there was hardly a free patch of carpet.

Hermione always wound up attending these meetings, partly in support of Ginny, partly because it was better than being alone, but mostly because she couldn't stand the thought that anyone else might make themselves comfortable on Ron's bed, even for an hour or two, even inadvertently. It wasn't really his anymore - the elves had certainly seen to that - but Hermione still felt she needed it to be hers and hers alone. She almost didn't care that it was irrational, possibly even petty. Ron had been gone for weeks, and she had made her peace with that, but sitting on the bed that had once been his was one of her only ways to feel physically close to him.

And it occurred to her, as she leaned against the headboard and watched Ginny levitate a parchment covered in wriggling Xs and Os so that her team could see, that she had never spent a whole night in this bed. She had always left, feeling the obligation of her role as Head Girl pulling her away with a sort of unavoidable magnetism. Maybe the war had established in her the belief that what could go wrong, would - not to mention the article in the Daily Prophet after her birthday that still made her cringe - but she had always expected that she would be needed, and that she certainly shouldn’t be located in her boyfriend's bed when the moment arose. Of course, it never had. Even with him right there in Gryffindor Tower, she had chosen to spend every night alone, and now that he was countless miles away, she would do anything to have him there.

Except she wouldn't, really, because she wasn't going to jeopardize either of his jobs, or her schooling, or inadvertently render him miserable by bringing him back to the castle, but the things she was willing to do were rapidly increasing in number. Last weekend had been a tease. It had reminded her just what she was missing, and more, just how much she missed it. She missed Ron's voice - she had been wondering, since she kissed him goodbye on High Street, if she could devise a way to speak with him nightly - she missed his hands, she missed the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed… but none of that came across in a letter, as much as they might try.

"Now, remember," Ginny was saying, "Ravenclaw might have the best Seeker in the school, but we've got the best team overall. Keep their Seeker distracted - Peakes, that's on you - and keep our score high and theirs low, and we'll have no problems."

She really was good at this. With a book in her lap, Hermione had watched as Ginny had talked them through plays and strategies, their attention rapt the entire time. What she hadn't told them was that a recruiter from the Holyhead Harpies would once again be in the stands, lest they be distracted by such a presence. And if Ginny was nervous, she was hiding it well, her ever-present confidence exuding from every pore as she dismissed her team and began to pack up her things. Lying on his stomach on his own bed, Dean had let the whole thing carry on with an amused resignation as he half-heartedly completed his Potions essay. Hermione sensed that he was experiencing the same doubts she was; his own relationship had been long-distance for months now.

As the team filed out, Ginny slowly gathered her belongings. Hermione had the distinct impression that she wasn't terribly keen on leaving the dorm either.

"So, Harry’ll be here at eleven tomorrow,” said Ginny, shuffling her stack of parchment. “He said he’ll meet you by the gates, if that’s okay.”

“It’s fine,” Hermione sniffed. “That sounds good.”

In the tense silence that followed, Ginny rearranged her parchment again, clearly stalling. The voices of the team in the hallway slowly faded, leaving the scratching of Dean’s quill to fill the room.

“Ron’d be there if he could,” Ginny supplied finally. “I’m sure he feels awful-“

“I know,” Hermione cut her off. “It isn’t his fault.”

Another silence ensued. Dean looked up from his own work, eyes darting between the two, then seemed to decide it was best to let them be.

“I’m not mad at him,” Hermione felt compelled to add. “I’m just disappointed that the scheduling didn’t work out.”

And if she was honest, really, truly honest with herself, she had allowed her own jealousy of Ginny to spiral a bit out of control over these past six days. Harry would be there. And even if Ginny was playing in the match most of the time, she would still see him. At times, when Hermione was feeling especially bitter, she wondered if Harry hadn’t been done some sort of favor by whomever at the Ministry controlled Auror training (even if her rational side knew that the Ministry likely couldn’t have cared less about Hogwarts Quidditch). She constantly found herself wishing that things were different, and yet she felt powerless to enact any sort of real change. All she could do was wait, and she had never been a very patient person.

“Anyway,” said Dean as the room grew evermore quiet, “as much as you lot are always welcome to visit, I sort of wanted to sleep - Seamus is coming to the match, so-“

“Right,” Hermione said at once. “Yes, we’ll go, come on, Ginny.”

With one last look at the initials carved into the bed frame, Hermione hauled herself up and made her way to the door.

  
•••

The following morning arrived with heavy clouds and intermittent rain, which spattered erratically on the castle windows. While Ginny burst out of bed the instant her alarm sounded and dressed in her Quidditch robes at near-lightning speed, bouncing round the dormitory like a Cornish pixie, Hermione felt as though her own limbs were made of lead as she pulled on her uniform and wove her hair into a long plait at the back of her neck. She knew she should probably show some enthusiasm and be supportive of Ginny, but it was difficult to muster much excitement for the day ahead. She kept imagining meeting Harry at the gates - just Harry - and the fact that she loved him like a brother didn’t assuage the heavy pit of disappointment in her stomach.

Breakfast at the Gryffindor table before a match was always an anxiety-ridden affair, and this morning was no different. Most of the team picked at their food, their faces varying ashen shades, before Ginny stood, palms on the table, and demanded that everyone join her in the locker room. They had no choice but to follow her out as the mail owls swooped in overhead. Hermione wasn’t expecting a letter - she had just sent one to Ron the day before - and as others opened parcels and unfurled scrolls of parchment, she finished her porridge alone. The ceiling above her head showed iron-grey clouds and thick, misty fog; it was not ideal weather for spectating a match, but Hermione proceeded out to the stadium regardless. Outside, the air was damp and near-freezing, the type that chilled a person to the bone. It would have been the perfect excuse to curl up under a blanket with Ron, nestle against him for warmth... but as it was, she supposed she would just have to use a warming charm.

At the castle gates, visitors were beginning to stream onto the grounds between the winged-boar statues. Weaving her way past throngs of parents and hyperactive younger siblings, Hermione made her way to the very edge of the castle grounds, where the path to and from Hogsmeade met the threshold of the gates, and prepared to wait. Rising on tiptoe, she scanned the crowd for any sign of Harry’s untidy black hair. He couldn’t be long now: he had never been the most punctual of people, but certainly he wouldn’t be late on a day like this. Squinting at the stragglers at the back of the crowd, she pondered if he had somehow been delayed. Poor Harry, she thought sympathetically. All he wanted was to watch his girlfriend play Quidditch, and he was probably being hounded for autographs-

A hand fell on Hermione’s shoulder, and she spun around to see Harry, and beside him - _Ron?!_ It couldn’t be, and yet there he stood, an enormous grin on his face, gut-wrenchingly gorgeous, the deep crimson of his jumper peeking out from under a dark cloak. The sight of him made her heart skip a beat, then resume a rapid tattoo against her ribs, and as he leaned down to kiss her, she stepped back.

“What are you doing here?” she exclaimed, voice shrill. “Don’t you have your training?”

“No,” he smiled, “I don’t-“

“Did you change it?!”

“No,” he laughed again, “it was never - it’s next weekend - I wanted to surprise you,” he said, “and I reckon it worked.”

“Oh!” Relief flooded through her in one swift rush: he was _here_. And he had always meant to be here. She flung her arms around his neck, making him laugh into her ear, his hands on her waist to pull her close. “Oh, you scared me-“

But she cut herself off, finding his smiling lips for a kiss. For a second, the din around them subsided into the background; she forgot Harry was not-so-patiently waiting for them to join him in the Quidditch stadium, or that crowds of visitors still milled around them. Ron was here, now peppering kisses onto her lips in rapid succession, and the past week of yearning for him melted into oblivion.

“I scared you?” he asked, grinning, his nose brushing against hers.

“Yes!” Hermione snuck another kiss. “I thought-“

Her words were interrupted by a jubilant roar from the stadium, and she realized, with a shade of disappointment, that the match was beginning imminently, and they were expected to actually watch it. Harry led the way, partly out of his own urgency but partly because Hermione kept tugging Ron down to kiss her as they were walking. It kept resulting in his mouth landing somewhere near her lips, but not quite - her nose, the corner of her mouth, her chin - which just made him laugh and stop in his tracks so he could kiss her properly. Hermione hadn’t felt this giddy in months, if ever, and at the moment, she didn’t care what anyone else thought about it. Ron was here, he’d surprised her, and now that she had recovered from the shock of it, she was going to take advantage of every second.

As they weren’t exactly timely in their arrival to the stadium, the only seats left in the Gryffindor section were in the very top row of the stands. They climbed the wooden steps, ignoring the curious gaze of the younger students, and settled onto the bench just in time to see Ginny and the Ravenclaw Captain shaking hands in the center of the pitch. As fourteen athletes soared into the air, transforming into blurs of scarlet and gold, blue and bronze, Harry jumped to his feet to see over the tops of the spectators in front of them. After a second, Ron and Hermione stood as well, the former leaning back against the wooden railing.

“Ooh, don’t do that,” Hermione requested anxiously. “What if it breaks?”

“I can do magic,” was Ron’s airy response. “I’ll make it.”

To Ron’s right, Harry was making quick work of screaming himself hoarse in support of Ginny, his fists flying into the air as she scored the first goal of the game. Hermione watched Ron's reaction, the grin that spread over his face as he applauded his sister, but something about him had stiffened somewhat, and her eyes kept darting over to him as he leaned back against the railing again. Unsurprisingly, she found him infinitely more riveting than match unfolding in the air in front of her, and she could sense that he hadn't fully relaxed.

"Is it strange for you?" Hermione asked him. "Being back here?"

Ron crinkled his nose in response. "Not really."

She glanced at the castle, looming large in the distance, and wasn't sure if she believed him or not. But he'd tolerated four whole months, and even managed to make the best of it at times, and it had to be jarring, now, to watch a team he'd been on for two and a half years play without him.

"Do you wish that was still you out there?" she continued, smiling to try to coax out one of his own.

"Nah," he replied, his blue eyes flitting back and forth as he tracked the athletes in the air.

Gryffindor scored again - Demelza this time - and while Harry was jumping around yelling and hugging students he'd never met before, Ron was decidedly subdued. Quiet, even.

And Ron, in all the years Hermione had known him, had never been quiet during a Quidditch match. Even when he didn’t like either team that was playing, he still became invested, still shouted at the wireless as though it might impact the outcome, but now, even with his sister Captaining the Gryffindor team, he simply clapped for her.

“Hey,” said Hermione quietly, maneuvering her hand into his. “Are you okay?”

“Mmhmm.”

But he wasn’t looking at her, instead cringing as the Gryffindor Keeper - his successor - narrowly allowed Ravenclaw to score. Harry cursed loudly.

“Did you really think I changed it?” Ron asked, his voice strangely even. “The training?”

“Well-“ Hermione paused, puzzled. “Yes - you’d said it was this weekend-“

“And so that was your first thought?”

“What do you - what else would I have thought?”

“So you really thought,” he began, his eyes determinedly trained on the pitch, “when I showed up here today, that I’d gotten myself out of Auror training so I could come to a Quidditch match?”

The crowd around them in the stadium had become a large, humming mass of energy, but once again, it grew distant, receding into the background. Hermione’s forehead puckered as she squinted at Ron, desperate to understand.

“I don’t know what else you want me to have thought,” she said finally.

“Okay,” Ron nodded, and Ravenclaw scored again.

Why had she even asked, upon seeing him, what had happened? She always had to know everything, the what and the why and the how, and she was always looking gift horses in the mouth. She should have just kissed him, and told him how thrilled she was to see him, and he wouldn’t be standing next to her like this, lightly gnawing on the inside of his lip and staring blankly at the pitch.

“Ron, what’s wrong?” she asked after several moments of thick, excruciating silence had passed and his hand had fallen slack around hers. “What did I do?”

Lips pulled between his teeth, he let out a long, distressed breath through his nose. “I’m - I’ve been trying to be... better, lately. Responsible. And do what I’m supposed to do, not just what I want to do.” His throat bobbed; out on the pitch, Ginny narrowly avoided being knocked off her broom by a Bludger. “But you can’t see that.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” she was quick to tell him. “It was just the first logical conclusion.”

“Not that I was planning on surprising you the whole time?”

“Well - no - my first instinct isn’t to assume you’ve lied to me,” she said, desperate to banish the resignation, the hurt, from his face.

Because whatever he’d said, she could see it, the way he had grown up during the war. It was in every letter he wrote her, in the pride he took in the shop and all the effort he poured into Auror training. She knew he wasn’t the fifteen-year-old who played Hangman with Harry during class and then asked to borrow her notes, but what was more, she had adored him back then too.

  
Only, she hadn’t shown him. The way things were right now, it was hard to have the chance. She only had her words, inked onto parchment and flown across the country, but when it came to Ron, actions always spoke louder.

“But it’s not really a lie,” he said, “just a white lie - I wanted you to know the truth the whole time.”

“I’ve just gone so long thinking-“

“I know you have.”

A drizzling, spitting sort of rain had begun to fall. Hermione knew that the tendrils of her hair that had escaped her plait were frizzing wildly around her head, but she only focused on Ron. Droplets clung to the ends of his hair, darkening the strands into auburn, but he only had eyes for the match before them.

“Please,” said Hermione, “you’re making more of this than it is. You know I don’t think that about you.”

He nodded, stoic, his tongue sneaking out to wet his lips. “All right.”

She took his hand again, giving it a squeeze until he turned to look at her, and in that instant, a roar of triumph erupted from the Ravenclaw end of the stadium: Ravenclaw’s Seeker soared through the sky, the Snitch clutched in his fist.

“ _Fuck_.” Harry was shoving anxiously past them in his haste to reach the aisle. “Ron, I’ll see you at home.”

As Harry flew down the steps, no doubt on his way to comfort Ginny, Ron’s shoulders sagged.

“I’ve probably got to go, haven’t I.”

It was not a question, but a somber declaration, and Hermione hated that he was right. All visitors, as she knew from the official Hogwarts rule book that she had received upon becoming a prefect, had to be out of castle bounds within fifteen minutes of the end of the match.

Even if the match itself had barely lasted fifteen minutes.

“Just - wait a few minutes,” Hermione pleaded. “I don’t want to leave like this.”

“It’s okay,” he said, and once again, she wasn’t sure she believed him. “You’re right, I’m probably overthinking it.”

Disappointed Gryffindor students were milling past them now, trudging back to the castle, where they would no doubt commiserate in the common room. Hermione ignored them, ignored their curious eyes, their friendly invitations and greetings to Ron. She stood on her toes to bring herself closer to Ron, longing to return to the way things had been when he had first arrived and they couldn't keep their hands and lips and eyes off each other.

“I’m really glad you came,” she told him, moving in to press her lips to his. He returned the kiss, short, sweet, and then sprinkled a couple kisses along her cheek. “You have to know, I was so happy to see you.”

“I know, I - yeah,” he replied with the corner of his mouth twitching upward, “me too.”

The stands were emptying now, leaving them even more exposed to prying eyes, so Hermione led Ron reluctantly by the hand to the stairs, moving slowly, gripping his fingers so tightly that she threatened to cut off his circulation. But she didn’t care, really, that she was clinging to him or that she was considering sentencing Ravenclaw’s Seeker to a week’s detention for being too efficient.

Nothing about this was fair. The match had been unprecedentedly brief, and they had spent half of it in a terse not-quite-argument. Now he had to leave, and she probably wouldn’t see him until the Easter hols in April. She would miss his birthday. And that old party line of doing what they had to do, what they were supposed to do, it wasn’t enough anymore. It wasn’t easing the ache or making the distance more tolerable. It didn’t change the fact that she wished, every single night, that the things they needed would align.

When they reached the winged boar statues, Hermione wrapped her arms tightly around Ron’s neck. The rain had picked up, soaking resolutely into their cloaks, but she still would have stood there all day if it meant he didn’t have to leave.

“I love you,” she whispered, closing her eyes to block out everything else.

“I love you too.”

His lips found hers again, but it felt like they had just barely touched before they broke apart. She wanted to ask him to stay, to say that they’d find a way for him to sneak back out if she could just get a little more time with him… but instead she just hugged him one last time and watched as he disappeared into the growing horde of people leaving the grounds.

As he faded from sight, she found herself directionless. Ginny was certainly with Harry, who understood better than anyone the pain of a Quidditch loss. Though the fifteen post-match minutes were rapidly dwindling, Harry was Harry, and he wasn’t going to leave until he was good and ready. He had his own ways, anyway, Hermione mused as she gazed at the still-open gates. McGonagall had a soft spot for both him and Quidditch, and would let him use her Floo. And there was always Kreacher, who would Apparate him anywhere he pleased.

Something switched in Hermione’s exhausted, overactive brain. _Kreacher_ …

The gates began to swing shut, their timeworn hinges groaning as they moved. Mere seconds remained for the decision to be made, and really, it was one of the easiest she had ever faced. Quickly scanning the grounds, she found herself experiencing a blessed moment of solitude, and seized the opportunity, bolting through the gates just before they slammed together.

She’d done it. And there was no turning back now even if she wanted to. Without so much as even a backward glance at the castle, she clutched her wand and turned on the spot, concentrating hard on the front porch of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. She wasted no time entering the house upon landing, but immediately found the entryway cold and dark.

“Ron?” she called, peering into the drawing room as she hurried down the hall. “Ron, it’s me, I need to talk to you.”

But the basement kitchen was empty, and her footsteps pounding up the staircase to his bedroom made the only sound in the house. She flung open the door to his room, and while the sight of his rumpled, unmade bed and overflowing hamper in the corner was achingly familiar, it also confirmed that Ron had not come home.

Hermione leaned against the wall, resisting the powerful urge to bury herself in Ron’s blankets and never leave, and tried to think logically. She was already on borrowed time, and she couldn’t waste any more of it Apparating around London. It was unlikely that he would go to the Burrow; she knew he and Harry typically went there on Sundays, for dinner. Most Saturdays were spent at the joke shop with George, and a hot wave of guilt surged through Hermione as she realized Ron had asked for the past two weekends off just for her.

With one last look around the room, Hermione shut the door and headed back downstairs.

Diagon Alley was bright and sunny, albeit cold, in stark contrast to the humid drizzle of Hogwarts. The shop still stood out like a beacon among the other storefronts, though as time had passed since the war, more and more businesses had been resurrected. As she entered, a bell on the door jangled and George, behind the counter, looked up from organizing a display of Puking Pastilles.

“Hermione - hey-“

“Is Ron here?” she asked. “He wasn’t at home-“

“Yeah, he’s in the stockroom,” he nodded, beckoning her behind the counter. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”

“You’re one to talk,” she spat back, which only made him laugh as he opened up the doorway to the back offices for her.

“First door on the right.”

The doors on the left, the offices, were tightly shut, but the door to the stockroom was ajar, so Hermione pushed tentatively through.

Ron had his back to her, and she observed as his strong arms hoisted boxes of Fanged Flyers onto a shelf above his head. He had shed his cloak, but still wore the same crimson jumper from earlier, which hitched up as he raised his arms to reveal a sliver of pale skin above his trousers.

“Hi,” she called across the room, the simple greeting reverberating off the walls.

At the sound of her voice, Ron spun around so quickly that he nearly lost balance.

“What’re you doing here?” he exclaimed, crossing the room to meet her. “Is everything okay?”

“I have to talk to you,” she said, shutting the door behind herself. “I couldn’t let you leave the way you did, not when - Ron, you’ve got it all wrong.”

His mouth hung halfway open. “Er-“

“I did think that you switched the day of your training so that you could see me,” she stated. “But not because I think you’re irresponsible, because I don’t. If I did, I never would have encouraged you to take both jobs.”

“Hermione-“

“I’m not done,” she said, freezing him in his tracks. “It was my first thought because you - for as long as I’ve known you, you’ve always put the people you love first, before anything else. And that is not a bad thing,” she concluded firmly. “It’s a wonderful thing. It’s one of the things I love most about you.”

Ron’s features relaxed then into a soft, warm smile. “Really?”

“Yes! Look where you are right now, on what was obviously supposed to be a day off for you, look at everything you’ve done for George, and Harry - and I’m sorry,” she added, stepping forward to take his hands. “I’m sorry I haven’t done a good job showing you how amazing I think you are.”

“C’mere,” he muttered, using her hands to pull her close and claiming her lips with his. As they kissed, hungrily, Ron walked her backwards, letting go of her hands so he could push her cloak off of her shoulders. It dropped to the floor just as the back of Hermione’s thighs met the edge of a crate of Chocolate Frogs. “You snuck out of Hogwarts,” he marveled in disbelief, kissing the corner of her mouth and her jaw.

“I did.”

“You snuck out for me,” he repeated, breathless.

“Of course I did.”

Strong hands closed on her waist, boosting her up to sit atop the crate. Immediately her legs locked around his hips, drawing him to her, and their lips met again.

“How much time do you have?” he asked, lips brushing hers.

“I’m already not supposed to be here,” she reminded him. “So if you have something in mind…”

He responded by reaching for the buttons on her cardigan and kissing her again, tongue plunging into her mouth. Hermione couldn’t believe she had even considered settling for the chaste kisses they had shared at the match, or that she had resisted his invitations to Apparate home with him last weekend. He was kissing her now like his life depended on it, and she felt the same just now, like oxygen was nothing compared to him.

Her fingers slid up the coarse wool of his jumper and over the nape of his neck, sinking into his still-wet hair. She hadn’t been this close to him in weeks, and the scent of his hair combined with the rain and the taste of his tongue was dizzying, and she could hardly draw breath. He dragged his lips down over her jaw and onto the pulse point of her throat, teeth nipping at her skin. She let out a long, ragged sigh, leaning back to allow him better access.

“This is mental,” he mumbled against her neck, though his words didn’t stop him unbuttoning her blouse. “Completely mental.”

“I don’t care if you don’t.”

Ron paused, momentarily pensive, and then straightened up enough to pull his wand from his back pocket and cast a locking spell at the door.

“Nah, I definitely don’t,” he said, just before his lips landed on hers again.

More than anything, Hermione wanted to savour this, to relish in every single touch and kiss and not worry about the fact that she was supposed to be hundreds of miles away, and she still didn’t completely have a plan for how to get back, but real life still loomed in the background, even as Ron’s hand snaked inside her blouse.

“Take this off,” she instructed, pulling futilely on his jumper, trying to work it up his lean torso.

He grinned and happily did as told, grasping the wool behind his neck to worm out of it. As he tossed it carelessly away, Hermione let her eyes take in the sight of him, his freckled skin and the scars crossing his arms and his shoulder. She had missed him so much, she just wanted to drink him in, but then his lips were on her neck again and her mind went blissfully blank.

His hands found the elastic holding her plait together and loosened it so that her hair fell in untamed waves around her face, and her blouse was pushed gently over her shoulders as his mouth moved down, breath warm on her skin. She could feel every single beat of her heart as he kissed over the top of her breasts, lips gentle and soft and yet somehow searing hot.

“Ooh, the front-opening kind,” he chuckled, easily unhooking the clasp between her breasts so that her bra fell open. “It’s like you planned this.”

“I wish I had.”

Ron dropped a kiss where the clasp had just been and then pushed the cotton fabric to the sides so as to press his tongue to one of her nipples. Hermione bit her lower lip, suppressing a moan that threatened at the back of her throat. Her fingertips dug into his shoulders as he shifted his attention to her other breast; every single one of her senses had been heightened and she could hardly bear the demanding, pulsing heat between her legs. Sitting up a bit straighter, she reached for the waist of his trousers, hands setting to work on his belt, as he kissed her full on the mouth again.

“Fuck,” he gasped as she reached into his pants and wrapped her hand around him.

Up and down she stroked as he groaned into her mouth, using her free hand to shove his trousers and pants just below his hips. Even a second now seemed far too long to wait, and he clearly agreed as he moved a hand under her skirt and pulled her knickers down her thighs. Inching closer to the edge of the crate, Hermione shifted her legs even further apart, and in one swift motion Ron sank into her.

“Oh God,” she sighed, locking her ankles at the small of his back, unable to believe this was happening, finally, after all these weeks away.

Ron’s lips were glued to hers as he started to move inside her, slowly at first, as though he too was scared to disturb the moment lest he shatter it.

“I love you,” he mumbled against her lips, one hand secure at her back to hold her close, the other edging under her skirt again.

“I love you too.”

She tore her mouth from his to lay kisses on his shoulder as his thumb sought out the point where their bodies had joined, causing her legs to shudder. He had been right before, this was completely mental - they were in the stockroom of the joke shop, of all places, with love potions and Acid Pops all around them - but he was making her feel too brilliant for her to really bother caring. They moved faster together, falling into a rhythm, lips fusing against sweaty skin, and soon Hermione was biting down on his neck to keep from crying out, her release cresting and crashing over her. He wasn’t far behind, pumping into her and groaning her name into her hair, and then they stilled, chests heaving, hearts pounding.

With an impossibly gentle kiss to her lips, Ron withdrew and cast a couple of simple cleansing spells upon them. As he pulled his trousers back up, Hermione moved her clothing back into place, knowing she should feel far more urgency than she actually did.

“You’ve probably got to go soon, haven’t you,” said Ron, an air of resignation in his voice as he retrieved her knickers from the floor.

“I was never supposed to be here at all,” she reminded him. “I still don’t even know how I’m going to get back in.”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

Hermione didn’t blame him for sounding unconcerned, and as he kissed her again, his chest still bare, she detected the word just behind his lips that she knew he would never say: stay. It wouldn’t be fair of him to ask, not when they both knew she had to be back in Gryffindor tower within the hour. She didn’t want to tell him no, and he didn’t want to hear it, so she just kept kissing him, unhurried, as though she could freeze time by sheer force of will.

But she couldn’t, and in the end - once Ron had finally relented and gotten fully dressed - they found Harry back at Grimmauld Place. Dismayed by the match as he still was, he didn’t ask questions, and instead summoned Kreacher, who grudgingly Apparated Hermione back to Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom on the second floor.

When she returned to her dorm, she found a morose Ginny lying on her four-poster, still in her Quidditch robes.

“I’m sorry about the match-“ Hermione began, but Ginny dismissed her with an airy wave of her hand.

“Don’t be. We can beat Hufflepuff in May, I just have to focus on that now.” She sat up, her ponytail all in disarray. “Where’ve you been, anyway?”

“Oh.” She could tell the truth, she realized, without sharing all of the details. “Just doing what I wanted to do for once.”

“Good,” Ginny nodded her approval. “You should do that more often.”

* * *

 

_Thanks for reading! Please review :)_


	16. Want

Leave it to Hermione to be punctual. Since the twenty-fifth of February, a thick, folded bit of parchment had sat on Ron’s bedside table, clearly marked _DO NOT READ UNTIL 1ST MARCH_ , and the suspense was absolutely killing him. Why had she had to send it four days early? He had been so excited to receive such a long letter from her, only to find that he wasn’t allowed to read it yet - and knowing her, she would bewitch it so that he couldn’t cheat - and each day leading up to his nineteenth birthday had dragged more slowly than the last. Now, though he had been at the shop late last night doing inventory (and George couldn’t understand his sudden fondness for the storage room), he woke just after dawn and crept down to the kitchen, letter in hand. He’d fix beans on toast, he’d treat himself to a butterbeer, and then, finally, he’d read.

His mum had been big on birthdays growing up, always making up for a lack of funds for gifts with an outpouring of attention and affection, but he really didn’t feel he needed any of that this year. What he wanted was to see Hermione, but there was only so much sneaking out that she could do, so he planned to treat this as though it were any other day. He wasn’t five years old, he reminded himself as he used his wand to open a can of beans. He didn’t need a fuss made over his birthday anymore.

Settling in at the table, Ron unfolded the parchment - there were several sheets, he noticed with glee - and sipped his butterbeer, delighted at the sight of so much of Hermione’s penmanship.

_Dear Ron,_

_Happy birthday! I love you so much. Every single day, I thank my lucky stars that you were born, and that we found our way to each other, and that you have chosen me to love. You’re my best friend and my favorite person in the world, and there aren’t words to properly describe what you mean to me. I know your last couple of birthdays haven’t exactly been as good as you deserve, and I wish so badly that I could be there with you today._

_But since I can’t be there in person, I’ll have to describe to you exactly what I’d do if I was..._

It was detailed. It was graphic. It was creative. The butterbeer and beans on toast sat forgotten as he devoured her words, his entire body growing warmer the longer the letter stretched on. Ron was positive he had never gone so red in the face, not even at times when he had been actually having sex with her. It was just stunning, seeing handwriting that he had so long associated with things like History of Magic notes and prefect schedules, now forming words that made him eternally grateful he had chosen to read this alone. She had actually composed this letter herself, probably gone somewhere quiet - oh Merlin, had she written it in the library? - and settled in to write, confident in the effect it would have on him. And had it done the same to her? Had her skin flushed the way his was doing now? Was she reveling in her own secret knowledge of what he was reading right now?

And how was he going to last thirty more days until the Easter hols?

 _Then_ , Hermione had written, _I’d run my tongue along your-_

“Mornin’,” came Harry’s cheerful voice from the doorway as he padded into the kitchen. “Oi, happy birthday, mate.”

“Y-yeah,” Ron stammered back. “Thanks.”

He turned his attention back to the parchment, trying to block out the sound of Harry bustling about in the kitchen for his own breakfast. _Hermione’s tongue_ , he reminded himself. She’d been doing some fantastic things with it in her letter, and he was quite keen to see how she concluded all of this, though he had a few theories of his own about how things might go.

“Are we going to the Burrow tonight?” Harry asked, noisily setting a tea kettle on the range.

“Dunno,” Ron muttered back, half of his mind still on Hermione’s tongue and the other half debating whether he could get away with hexing Harry.

“You all right?” asked Harry. “You look a little, I dunno, peaky.”

 _Do not hex him_ , Ron told himself, closing his eyes in an effort to calm down. _He’s your best friend. Your sister loves him. He doesn’t know._

“Nah, I’m okay, I-“ Ron glanced at his forgotten breakfast. “I just need a shower.”

Grabbing up the letter, he bolted from the room.

An hour later, he was standing in a lift at the Ministry with Harry, attempting futilely to shift his mind away from the images Hermione had burned into his imagination and into Auror mode, when Harry suddenly spoke.

“I don’t know if I mentioned this,” he said as the floors ticked by, “but I was talking to Kingsley the other day - I think you’d already left for the shop - and he was saying that they’re still monitoring all of the mail in and out of Hogwarts.”

Ron was sure his entire face had gone instantaneously maroon. “Wh-what?”

“Just as a safety measure,” Harry added. “They said there’s no harm in being cautious, so they’re reading everything. They’re being pretty thorough, too, checking for hidden codes, all of it.”

“No,” Ron muttered, almost to himself, his knees suddenly wobbly. “N-no, they can’t be, they wouldn’t-“

“They’re not,” Harry confessed, voice shaking with laughter, and Ron turned to see him looking like Christmas had come early. “But you should see your face.”

Ron thumped his fist firmly against Harry’s shoulder, which only made him laugh harder. “Git.”

•••

NEWT revision had reached new levels of hysteria, and the impending holidays had done nothing to lessen the workload on seventh year students. With a trunk laden down with textbooks and Crookshanks tucked safely into his carrier, Hermione stepped into McGonagall’s fireplace on the thirty-first of March and Flooed directly to the Burrow. The sounds and scents of a family dinner with the Weasleys greeted her before she could even regain her balance, but as the soot cleared, she saw Ron moving eagerly toward the fireplace. As she stepped into the sitting room, he took her trunk from her hands.

“Blimey, what’ve you got in here?” he asked, making a great show of sagging from its weight as Hermione placed Crookshanks’ carrier gently on the floor. “Have you packed the whole library?”

“Feels like it,” she replied, tilting her face up to accept a kiss from him as Crookshanks burst free and tore off up the stairs. The sitting room was uncharacteristically empty, save for George, who was perusing an upside-down Quibbler, and Harry, who leapt to his feet when Ginny swirled into view. “Where is everyone?”

“Charlie’s staying with Bill and Fleur, but they should all be here soon - and Percy went to go pick up his new girlfriend,” said Ron with a pointed raise of his brow. “So that’ll be… interesting.”

He set the trunk against the wall, brushing his hands off on his trousers, and draped a casual arm across Hermione’s shoulders.

“You haven’t met her?”

“No,” said Ron as he steered Hermione into the kitchen, “and I think this is a weird occasion to introduce her to everyone. Never knows how to read a room, that Percy.”

He reached out to snag a biscuit from a tray on the kitchen table as his mother placed a tray of cubed potatoes into the oven and straightened up.

“Oh, Hermione, dear, I thought that must be you and Ginny!” she exclaimed, wiping her hands on her apron and hurrying over to hug her. “How are you? How’s school been going?”

“Oh, it’s been fine, thanks-“

“And you,” continued Mrs. Weasley, now stern as she turned to face her youngest son, “you had better be nice tonight.”

He scowled in response. “I am nice! I’m always nice, I just think picking tonight in particular is really weird.”

Because tonight, of course, was George’s celebratory birthday dinner. George. Not _the twins_ , not _Fred and George_ , just George, and the absence was lost on no one. But Molly had insisted despite all protests to the contrary, claiming that she was going to celebrate her sons, and nobody truly had the heart to defy her once she had begun planning the dinner. Tellingly, though, she had planned it for the night before the twins’ actual birthday, which left everyone to their own devices the next day. Ron and George had already planned to close the shop for the day in memoriam, so aside from Auror training, Hermione wasn’t sure how he envisioned the rest of the day.

“I think it’s nice that he wants her to meet the family,” declared Mrs. Weasley, peeking into a bubbling pot on the range. “Now, dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes, can you please let everybody know?”

Deciding not to pursue an argument with his mum - usually a lost cause - Ron instead poked his head into the sitting room to make the requisite announcement, and then surreptitiously led Hermione up the stairs to his room.

The topmost bedroom of the Burrow was a time capsule, a relic of an adolescent Ron. The Chudley Cannons in the posters on the walls still flew in and out of the frame, dodging Bludgers and saving goals (something, Ron had once assured Hermione, they never actually did on the pitch), and _Martin Miggs_ comics sat in tidy stacks in the corners. Everything was as he had left it that summer, when he had moved into Grimmauld Place with Harry, and Hermione hoped it always stayed this way. She liked the reminder of the boy she had grown up with, the one she had fallen for.

Ron kicked the door shut and then pulled Hermione flush against him, kissing her and walking her toward his old twin bed. Her knees hit the mattress and they collapsed upon it, the ancient bedsprings creaking loudly in protest. Ron’s lips landed on her neck, copper stubble on his jaw tickling her skin, and laughter bubbled up out of her throat.

“Ron,” she protested half-heartedly, barely making her case as she wound her arms around his neck. “Everyone’s downstairs.”

“I know.” He lazily kissed a path back up to her lips. “But I’ve been thinking about that letter all month…”

“Have you?”

“You know I have.” He rolled them onto their sides and kissed her again. “So come over tonight, then.”

“I’ve got to make an appearance at home first,” Hermione told him. “But after that, I will.”

Her parents were expecting her after dinner, it was true. Since their heart-to-heart over Christmas, they had been more understanding of her desire for independence, but she did still live there, and she knew they would want at least a bit of her time while she was back from school.

Even so, she wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to fall asleep next to Ron.

“What about tomorrow?” Hermione nudged Ron onto his back so she could nestle against his chest.

“You can come over anytime you want.”

“No, I mean - what are your plans? After training’s over, I mean, since the shop will be closed.”

“You,” he grinned. “You’re my plans - oi!” For his remark had earned him a pinch on the chest. “I mean it, I just want to see you as much as I can, the shop’s going to be so busy this weekend with all the kids home from Hogwarts.”

“I know. I’m just saying, I understand if you want to see your family. That’s all.”

Lightly, Ron brushed a stray hair away from her forehead and placed a kiss there, letting his lips linger.

“Now, about that letter,” he piped up after a few moments of easy silence, his voice filled with a new energy. “There were a few things on page four that I was very, very interested in-“

“Oh, only a few?”

“No, I’d like to act out the whole thing,” he assured her, a laugh escaping him as he shifted on the bed to face her. “And we can get started now, we’ll probably need most of the weekend-“

Hermione cut him off with a kiss.

All too soon, however, they were called down to dinner by Mr. Weasley, who greeted Hermione with an exuberant hug and a barrage of questions about the new Muggle video game console he had found at a secondhand shop in the village. As they headed into the kitchen, she caught a glimpse of a tall, dark-haired young woman in conversation with Mrs. Weasley. Hermione studied the interaction, noting the openness, the warmth on Mrs. Weasley’s face. Of course, she was always friendly and welcoming to anyone that her children brought home, and she had clearly learned her lesson after her past unwarranted skepticism about Fleur.

As they sat at the long wooden table, Hermione was introduced to Audrey, who had met Percy last year at a Ministry function, and then watched, slightly awed, as she was questioned throughout the entirety of the meal. Audrey took it all in stride, even the jibes about her experience being a Ravenclaw in a room full of Gryffindors, and George’s deadpan question about when she would receive her Order of Merlin for putting up with Percy. And Hermione loved the Weasleys, but she couldn’t imagine undergoing the same sort of scrutiny had she met Ron as an adult. For all intents and purposes, she had been indoctrinated into the family at the age of twelve, and none of them had been surprised when she and Ron had taken the logical next step. Nothing had really changed, and she was beyond grateful for that.

Shortly after pudding, Hermione left Ron in a chess match with Fleur - who was seriously giving him a run for his money - and slipped up the stairs to the loo. On the landing outside of Ginny’s room, however, she found Audrey leaning against the wall, arms folded over her chest, eyes cast down at the worn carpet. Hermione paused, debating if she should just march on past without acknowledging her - perhaps she just wanted a moment of peace - but then Audrey’s head popped up, her dark eyes wide.

“Oh! Hermione! Er - hi,” she stammered out. “Erm - I was just-“

Hermione remembered her, vaguely, from Hogwarts. She had been a Ravenclaw prefect, in the year between Percy and the twins, and all night she had seemed so poised, so perfectly put together. But now, here, standing next to a painting of a hippogriff that Charlie had done as a child, she seemed to exude nothing but stress.

“Are you okay?” asked Hermione.

“Yes!” she answered, too quickly. “Fine. Just… regrouping.”

“It must be a lot,” Hermione sympathized, “meeting everyone all at once like this.”

“Maybe a bit,” Audrey admitted. “I’m not really used to big families, I’m an only child.”

“So am I. But they’re the best, honestly. Soon you won’t remember what you did without them.” Audrey cracked a smile, so Hermione kept going. “How long have you and Percy been dating?”

“Just a few months,” she said. “But he’s been wanting me to meet his family about as long. It must have been so different for you,” she added, tilting her head curiously. “Percy said you and Ron have been together for forever.”

Hermione opened her mouth to correct her, to say that no, it would be a year in May, but something stopped her. Percy wasn’t oblivious to the goings-on during his years of estrangement, so he knew about Lavender, he wasn’t making assumptions. And Hermione remembered the way she and Ron had danced at Bill and Fleur’s wedding, her head tucked into the curve of his neck to block out everything else, and all the times in the tent when they communicated just with a look, and the way he had slept by her bed at Shell Cottage, and she thought that maybe Percy knew more they did. Ron had been it for her even then, he always had been.

“Basically,” Hermione agreed.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to keep you from wherever you’re going - I’ll go back downstairs.”

Hermione watched her willowy frame depart, contemplating just what had transpired. She could barely recall a time before she had known Ron and his family, as if they had always been a part of her, and she had never imagined a life without them, either. And, as she proceeded up the stairs, she knew she would never have to.

•••

Hermione first became aware of a steadily thudding heartbeat, though she couldn’t discern whether it was Ron’s or her own. His arms were wrapped warmly around her, his forearm heavy across her stomach, his nose buried in her hair. As she gradually came to consciousness, she registered the bell-like noise issuing from her wand, which last night had returned to its rightful place on Ron’s bedside table. Outside, the sun hadn’t quite risen, and she knew Ron had Auror training that morning but felt, despite the insistent alarm, that she needed to bask in the moment just a little longer. Weeks of waking up alone had taught her not to take any time with him for granted.

Ron groaned, his arms tightening around her, and nuzzled further into her neck. When he let out a breath, Hermione suspected he had drifted off again, but then his lips brushed her shoulder, and his palm flattened against her torso.

“What time’s’it?” he mumbled, hand now shifting onto her hip.

“Half six.” Hermione mustered the strength to reach an arm out just enough to silence her wand.

“Don’t get up yet,” said Ron in a voice still low and thick from sleep. “Two more minutes.”

“Just two.”

Hermione turned her face toward his to meet his lips, letting her eyes slip shut again. As she turned onto her back to reach him more easily, he propped himself up onto his elbow and leaned in to deepen the kiss. His hand shifted up her bare torso and over her ribcage, and Hermione’s mind flitted back to the sultry, sweaty goodness that had transpired here just hours ago. She had to be home soon, and Ron had training, but maybe she could stretch these two minutes into five, or ten… fifteen, even…

His body pressed against hers, his skin growing warmer by the instant under her fingertips. Against the logic fighting in her brain to be heard, she pulled him on top of her and found his lips left hers to kiss down the side of her neck. A shuddering sigh escaped her; she never wanted to leave, not when this was the alternative-

“Fuck.” The expletive, though whispered, was no less fervent than if he had shouted it.

“What?”

“I just remembered,” he said. “What today is.”

Hermione’s stomach sank. Looking at once dismayed and guilty, Ron dropped a kiss on her forehead and rolled onto his back.

“I’m sorry.” The words felt trite and useless, but Hermione had never known what to say when it came to such topics as loss and grief. There simply weren’t words strong enough to convey what she truly felt.

“It’s not your fault,” he replied. “I’m glad you’re here, it - it helps. A lot.”

Hermione turned and nestled herself into Ron’s side, her cheek against his chest and her hand resting on his arm. Her physical presence, she hoped, would be more of a comfort for him than her words. Out of habit, she draped her leg over his and he pulled her closer until she was nearly on top of him. Once again, the resolute beats of their hearts seemed to merge together until Hermione could no longest discern whose was whose. Not that it mattered.

“Please come over tonight,” said Ron in a low, brittle voice. “I’m usually done with training around five.”

“Of course I will.”

His own wand let out a sharp blast, so he extended an arm to silence it.

“Just two more minutes,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Just a little bit more.”

•••

The Grangers’ dental practice had closed in honor of the holiday weekend, and so Hermione, upon arriving home from Grimmauld Place, was treated to an enormous breakfast and a lengthy but surprisingly comfortable conversation about her term at Hogwarts. It no longer felt like an interview the way it had over Christmas, but rather, a genuine interest in her life. There wasn’t all that much to tell, as the lion’s share of her free time was spent in the library revising for her NEWTs, but they were fascinated by the details of her Transfiguration classes and still baffled by the rules of Quidditch. “If the Snitch is worth one-hundred-fifty points,” her father had wondered aloud, “then why bother with the rest of it?” Hermione had nearly been on the point of contacting Ron so he could explain the finer details before she recalled that he was in a training class at the Ministry.

Admittedly, she liked seeing these two sides of her life overlap a bit. Not so long ago, there had been a massive disconnect, and Hermione had been stretched between two essential elements of her life: her Muggle childhood, and her coming-of-age and future as a witch. The closer she could bring them, the better. She had grown up on the notion that she could have anything and everything that she wanted, as long as she worked for it, and she didn’t see why this was any different.

Shortly after lunch, just as Hermione and her mum were preparing to head out for a bit of shopping, there came a peculiar scuffling noise from within the fireplace. Hermione hurried across the sitting room to investigate and arrived just in time to catch a tiny, soot-covered owl just before he hit the floor. Pigwidgeon, to his credit, seemed delighted to see her and proudly held out the scrap of parchment clamped in his beak. As he twittered around depositing soot onto the pristine carpet, Hermione unfolded her mail.

_Hermione-_

_I’m going to go to the Burrow tonight after training, I reckoned I should see my mum and dad. But I’m still going to spend the night at Grimmauld Place and I still really want to see you so please come over anytime you want, and I’ll see you when I get home._

_Love you._

_Ron_

As she read, she found herself nodding along with his words. She’d have been more surprised if he hadn’t gone to see his family on a day like today, one on which his parents would undoubtedly find solace in their children. And her own family, she realized as her mum bustled about in the kitchen, eagerly preparing for their outing, needed her too. It wasn’t quite in the same way, naturally, they weren’t mourning like the Weasleys were, but they were so pleased to have her back. As much as they understood that she would want to see Ron, she had to make room for them too.

So she tidied Pigwidgeon up, and cleared away the mess he had made on the carpet, and then departed with her mother, tucking Ron’s note into the pocket of her jeans.

Around nine that night, she dragged herself through the front door of Number Twelve, her footsteps leading her down to the basement kitchen as if on autopilot. Throughout the course of the afternoon, she had become gradually laden down by shopping bags; her mum had clearly thought that entering a shop without making a purchase was a gross misuse of time. Hermione had tried to protest, whispering under her breath that her future employment would require her to wear robes, not the smart little blazer her mum had gushed over in Harrod’s, but it had all fallen on deaf ears. After dropping off her new wardrobe back at home, she had explained that she had plans with Ron and Apparated directly to Grimmauld Place.

Harry was alone in the kitchen when she entered, his attention trained on a recent edition of Quidditch Quarterly, a plate of biscuits on the table in front of him.

“Hey,” he greeted her with a upward nod of the chin.

“Hi,” she replied. “Is Ron-“

“Not back yet,” he stated, his voice softening a bit. “He and Ginny are both supposed to come back here tonight.”

“Oh. All right.”

“There’s tea if you want some,” he added, his own way of extending a friendly invitation.

“Thanks.” Hermione fixed herself a cup and carried it over to the table, seating herself across from Harry. “Why aren’t you there?”

He cringed and reached for the plate of biscuits, breaking one in half. “It feels like a family-only thing. Y’know?”

“But you are part of the family.”

“And so are you,” Harry countered, albeit gently. “I just keep thinking about fifth year, when Arthur - and before we knew he was gonna be okay, I just felt like I shouldn’t be there with them, like I was an intruder - ‘course, I also thought it was my fault back then.” He crammed the biscuit into his mouth and chewed. “Now, this actually is my fault-“

“No,” Hermione interrupted firmly. “It is not your fault, it’s Tom Riddle’s fault. It’s not like you chose any of it.”

“Logically, yeah, I know that, but - I don’t know, it’s hard not to wonder sometimes. And today’s one of those days.” He snapped off another piece of biscuit. “And when you get down to it, at this point, I’m just Ginny’s boyfriend-“

“You’re so much more than that to them, though-“

“And so are you,” Harry repeated. “I mean - more than Ron’s girlfriend. Think about Audrey, the other night,” he said with a sudden burst of inspiration. “She’s a perfectly nice person, but I don’t think Molly was planning their wedding in her head the way she’s been doing with you and Ron since fifth year.”

“Stop-“

“I’m serious, though,” Harry insisted, even as his mouth was curving into a smile. “Remember when you were both made prefect and they had that big party here, and Molly made that ‘Congratulations Ron and Hermione’ banner? You don’t think she saved it so she could use it again for, oh I don’t know… an engagement party?”

“ _Shut up-_ “

“I don’t see you denying it-“

“I’m not,” Hermione stated, watching the teasing grin melt off Harry’s face.

“You… do you reckon you’ll marry him?”

“I know I will.” It was strange having this conversation with Harry, as she hadn’t even really had it with Ron. They always spoke of their future together as though it was guaranteed, the bond between them already cemented. “It doesn’t have to be soon, but I know it’ll happen.”

“It’s so crazy,” Harry mused, voice thick with disbelief. “How things worked out. That we’ll both marry Weasleys.”

She wasn’t surprised to hear him say that, but before she could reply - and tell him that he’d proven his point, that they were all family, that they had been for years - there emerged two redheads from the stairs, and the subject at hand was dropped. Ron’s long strides carried him quickly across the room to the kitchen table, where he dropped a kiss onto Hermione’s temple and dropped into the chair beside her. Despite his clear exhaustion, a weary smile tugged on the corners of his mouth as he picked up her mug and sampled her tea.

“Eugh,” he said with an exaggerated grimace, “you’ve forgotten the sugar-“

“I haven’t _forgotten_ -“ But he was leaning toward her, and she no longer cared to argue, instead fitting her lips against his.

“Can we just go to bed?” Ron requested, and when Hermione agreed, Harry let out a chuckle from across the table.

“Subtle, mate,” he laughed as Ron, rolling his eyes, stood and offered his hand to Hermione. “Really subtle.”

When they were behind the door of Ron’s bedroom, Hermione fully expected to pick up where they had left off that morning. Instead, she found Ron’s arms enveloping her, drawing her against his chest, one hand on the nape of her neck, the other arm across the small of her back.

“Are you okay?” she asked into his t-shirt.

“I love you,” came the muffled response, for his face was in her hair. “I love you so much, please - please stay here.”

“I will, of course I will - are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yeah, I just - I just really want you to stay.”

And so she fell asleep in his arms that night, their two heartbeats merging yet again into one constant, steady beat.

•••

“I still can’t believe you told him,” Hermione said, leaning back in her chair and making her very best attempt at a stern expression.

“I didn’t! He must have figured it out!” replied Ron from across the table, indignant though he bit his lip as though to tamp down laughter. “He’s not exactly stupid, George, y’know?”

“Even so.” Out of the corner of her eye, she detected Harry and Ginny weaving their way through the crowded pub, pint glasses clutched in their hands. “You didn’t have to confirm it for him.”

“He wasn’t mad,” Ron assured her, grinning broadly as Harry plunked a glass down in front of him. “More proud of me than anything.”

“Who’s proud of what now?” asked Ginny, dropping into her seat and sliding a glass of fizzy drink garnished with lime over to Hermione.

“Nothing,” stated Hermione with a pointed look in Ron’s direction.

“Oh.” Harry smirked as he glanced between them. “That.”

“You told him too?!”

“No, George did - I’ll tell you later,” Harry added to Ginny, who was poking him insistently on the leg.

“Oh my God,” Hermione groaned, heat rushing to her face as she pitched dramatically forward, her forehead on her arms.

She had expected - assumed, really - that the details her very brief visit with Ron in the stockroom back in February would remain confidential, but she had, as usual, underestimated George Weasley. She supposed that none of them was naive, but she still hadn’t expected, when she met up with Ron at the shop so they could walk to the Leaky together, for George to casually advise her that she was banned from the back offices until further notice.

“So anyway,” Ginny began loudly, and Hermione internally thanked her for the change of subject, “Madame Hooch told me she’s been talking to that recruiter from Holyhead about coming to the final match.”

Hermione picked up her head in time to take in Ginny’s glowing, excited smile.

“You didn’t tell me that!” exclaimed Harry, who had immediately forgotten all about giving Hermione and Ron grief. “What’d she say?!”

“It sounds like she’ll be there,” Ginny began, and as she started in about missed opportunities on both sides, and Hufflepuff’s Keeper being absolute pants at his job, Ron’s hand crept over Hermione’s and squeezed it atop the table.

 _Sorry_ , he mouthed to her, but she shook her head and laced her fingers through his to indicate that she wasn’t actually angry with him. On the contrary, she wanted to soak up every single second that she had available with him, and she didn’t want to spend those seconds in little bickering fights with him. The Easter holiday was racing by, slipping through her fingers like sand no matter how hard she clung to it. Time with Ron was precious, limited, particularly in light of his new schedule, and she was going to take whatever she could get.

“So then, she said if they like what they see at the match, they actually bring you out to Holyhead for a trial with the rest of the team,” Ginny continued on, “to make sure you play well together, and if that goes well, then they start talking to you about a contract.”

“Would you have to move to Wales, then?” Ron chimed in. “And live among the sheep?”

“There’s not that many sheep there, Ron-“

“Yeah, there really are-“

“And probably not,” Ginny interrupted again. “The season’s only half the year, and that’s what Apparating’s for, anyway.”

Hermione took a sip of her drink through a tiny black straw and surveyed the scene in the pub. The Leaky Cauldron was always packed to the brim on holiday weekends, but this had worked in their favor, as the place was too crowded for Harry - and subsequently, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny - to stand out. Tonight they could have been any other group of young adults, and Hermione knew that when Ron picked up their joined hands to brush his lips over her knuckles, that it would go largely unnoticed.

“You’re working tomorrow, right?”

Ron nodded. “Yeah, should be really busy, Saturdays always are. You can always come by and visit, though.”

“And give George more ammunition? I’ll see you at home.”

If he noticed her little slip - that she had just referred to Grimmauld Place as home - he let it pass without commentary. But it had rolled off her tongue so easily, and the more that she thought about it, she really hadn’t been inaccurate at all.

The clock was nearing midnight when they decided to call it a night and pay their bill. With the line at the Floo seemingly miles long, they chose to walk back to Grimmauld Place, the spring air cool and fresh on their flushed faces. Diagon Alley, even in this late hour, was alive with activity, in stark contrast to the dismal hopelessness it had displayed less than a year ago. Gringotts was in perfect condition: innocent passers-by would never know that eleven months ago, a dragon had burst through its ceiling. With the exception of Harry garnering his the occasional stare and furtive whisper now that they were out in the open, it was as if there had never been a war at all.

A year ago, none of it had seemed possible. They had been hiding out at Shell Cottage, devising painstaking plans for robbing a bank vault. The Weasleys had all been forced into hiding, and there seemed no end in sight. Darkness had pressed slowly in on them from all sides until they couldn’t see a future past the next day, but now… now, Hermione saw all sorts of things in the future, brilliant, beautiful things that had previously only existed in her wildest dreams. She had reserved so many things for when the war was over, and now that it was, her path was illuminated with possibility.

She didn’t bother with pretenses when they finally reached Grimmauld Place: rather, she cheerfully wished Harry and Ginny goodnight and led Ron by the hand up to his room. It was all she could do to close the door before his lips were on hers, and she leaned back against the wall, her arms around his neck to bring him close. His hand on her waist slipped up her shirt, his fingertips warm as they ran along the small of her back. The taste of his lips was addictive; even after nearly a year of being together, officially, she still couldn’t get enough of him. She hoped it never faded. She hoped that fifty years from now, when their eyes locked, she still felt the same bold rush of affection that she always did. She didn’t want anything about Ron to feel commonplace, when she’d never met anyone like him and knew she never would again.

“Should probably,” he gasped between heated kisses, “silence the room…”

Impatiently Hermione waited as he stopped kissing her just long enough to cast the spell, then stood on her toes to catch his lips again. She let her hands drift along his sides, bunching up his shirt in her fists until she could pull it over his head. The thin shard of moonlight slanting in through the window cast him in stark relief, highlighting the freckles peppering his skin. She tried to slow herself down as she kissed him, but the only thought pounding through her foggy mind was how good his skin had always felt against hers, and she found herself wiggling out of her own shirt.

“D’y’wanna just shag right here?” Ron laughed against her lips, one large hand brushing the strap of her bra off her shoulder.

“How would we-“

“Like this,” he said, and he lifted her up off her feet so that her legs swung around his waist. “Only with a lot less on, obviously-“

Hermione shook her head and kissed him, soft, quick. “Bed.”

His muscles taut under her weight, he walked her over to the bed and laid her gently down, his blue eyes heavy-lidded as he crawled over her. Ducking his head down, he dropped a wet kiss on her torso before he set to work on the button of her denims, unhooking it and sliding the trousers down her legs. Almost as an afterthought, he shed his own, just as Hermione drew him back down to kiss her again. Her legs drifted to either side of him, and as his mouth traveled down her neck, teeth grazing over her skin, their hips ground lightly together and a soft moan escaped the back of his throat. The meager fabric between their bodies was nothing but a pointless barrier now, only holding them back from what they truly wanted.

His mouth was meandering down her chest, making its way to the subtle swell of her breasts, and his thumbs brushed over her nipples through the lacy fabric of her bra. Hermione released a shaky gasp, arching her back so he could undo the clasp on her bra. As it loosened around her, he pulled it away, his parted lips connecting to the underside of her breast, kissing and sucking the way months of experience had taught him she liked. Everything was growing hazy now, sweaty, blurry, as his hand smoothed down her stomach to her knickers. He carefully shifted aside the swatch of cotton between her legs and slipped a finger into her, then two, his teeth lightly grazing her nipple. She rocked her hips into his hand, bringing him as deep inside as she could, letting needy whimpers flow from her lips.

“R-Ron,” she managed to choke out, her hand grabbing futilely at his shoulder, “I - I need - more-“

“Right,” he breathed, removing his fingers from her so that he could fully rid her of her knickers.

In another instant, his pants had joined the rest of their clothes on the floor and he knelt between her legs, positioning himself at her entrance. Their eyes met as he pushed inside and she stretched to accommodate him, her heartbeat quickening with every second. As he moved inside her, he leaned down to press his lips to hers, his mouth absorbing her shuddering sigh.

“I want…” Hermione clamped her knees at his sides. “I want to go on top - but no, don’t pull out, you feel too - too good-“

“Okay, hang on,” he said, smiling a bit, still pulsing into her. “I’m gonna flip us.” His arm slid under her back, he tipped to the side, and suddenly she was straddling him, their chests pressed together, faces millimeters apart. “You all right?”

“Better than,” she replied, kissing him as her hair fell in curtains around their faces.

Planting a hand on each of his shoulders, she straightened up a bit, grinding herself against him. As she moved, she caught his eye again and was momentarily stunned by the expression of utter awe and adoration consuming his face. She always knew that he loved her, she never doubted it, but actually seeing it so clearly never failed to overwhelm her. One of his hands wrapped one of hers, steadying her, as the other gripped her hip.

“C’mere,” he muttered, using her hand to pull her down to him. Their lips met, almost lazily. “I love you.”

“I love you,” said Hermione at once, “I love you so much.”

He kissed her again, biting lightly on her lower lip, and she felt herself move faster atop him, needing more of him, always more. He kept his fingers laced through hers even as his other hand crept up her chest, curving over her breast, making her tremble. Her fingernails dug into his chest as she felt herself losing control, giving in to the demanding ache, and then he’d flipped her onto her back, checking again that she was okay before thrusting into her, his palms flat against the mattress, her legs locked around his waist as he spilled into her.

Their panting breaths were the only sound in the room - that, and the sloppy kisses that Ron bestowed on her shoulders and the curve of her neck. Hermione felt as though she could curl up and sleep for days, blissed-out and satisfied and completely spent. Ron slipped out of her and turned onto his side, his arm outstretched under his head, his other hand trailing up and down her stomach.

“We should get a bigger bed,” he remarked, flattening his hand over her ribcage. “Since clearly we need the room.”

“We?” Hermione repeated, liking the way it sounded.

“Yeah. We.” He nodded and picked up his head just long enough to kiss her arm. “I’ve - er, I’ve kind of been thinking lately. Because when I’m not at the shop or at training, all I think about is you. And I miss you so much when you’re not here. So I was thinking…” He rolled forward a bit to kiss her behind the ear and on her neck. “That when you’re done at Hogwarts, maybe you could come live here. Officially.”

Any and all fatigue Hermione might have been feeling quickly dissipated. “You want me to move in with you?”

“Or we could find our own flat, if you want,” he added, more earnest than Hermione had ever seen him. “I’ve actually got some income now which makes a nice change of pace, and it’s not like I have to live with Harry forever.”

He used to ask her this question all the time, only half-serious, over the summer when their relationship was brand-new and Hermione had to Apparate over in the middle of the night to spend time with him. And her response had always been that her parents would never allow it, that they kept the closest of tabs on her and certainly would not condone living with her boyfriend, but now, as a new summer drew near, circumstances were wildly different. Hermione no longer had to walk on eggshells around her parents, or hide her magic, and by the time July rolled around, she would have her first real job.

And now, he was asking her because he really meant it. He wanted to mesh their lives together. He wanted this to be their bed, not his.

“You understand,” she began, deadpan, “that it’s not just me you’ll be living with, right? Because Crookshanks and I are something of a packaged deal.”

“I know,” Ron grinned. “Just as long as he understands that _I’m_ your favorite ginger-“

“Says who?”

Hermione expected some sort of mock horror from him, or to be tickled to within an inch of her life for her teasing, but instead he inched closer and kissed her, long and slow.

“So is that a yes?” he asked hopefully.

“Yes, it’s a yes-“

And there was very little talking for the rest of the night.

* * *

 

Thanks for reading! Please review :)


	17. Soon

Hermione was faintly aware of a sharp bell-like sound, but that was inconsequential background noise, second fiddle to the soft skin beneath her palm and against her cheek, the heavy weight of an arm across her back, warm breath on the top of her head.

“Sorry,” muttered Ron, his voice gravelly, momentarily lifting his arm off of her to silence his wand on the nightstand.

Hermione hugged herself closer to him, trying to ignore the beam of light shining in on them, clinging to the stillness that had settled over them during the night. _Maybe you could come live here_ , he had said. _Officially_.

It sounded like such a huge step, especially at nineteen, but it didn’t feel like leaping into the unknown the way it might have done if they were any other couple. She knew what it was like to live with him - they had shared a tent for months - so she already knew that his clothes rarely ever made it into the hamper and that he sometimes washed dishes the Muggle way just to give his restless hands something to do - and their future together, it was inevitable. She had meant her words to Harry the other night. Ron, very simply, was it for her.

“Do you have to get up?” Hermione asked.

“Not yet, I’ve got a couple minutes.” His fingertips ghosted up and down the ridge between her shoulder blades, teasing her through the faded fabric of her borrowed-from-him shirt.

“That tickles,” she admonished him around a sleepy smile, his hand shifting up to rest on her hair as soon as she spoke.

“Sorry,” he said again, tone brighter this time. His face angled slowly toward hers, noses bumping before their lips connected. “Erm… you haven’t changed your mind, have you? About-“

“No,” she replied calmly. “Have you?”

“Never,” he said with a quiet confidence. “I just had a thought, y’know, after a shag like that, you might’ve agreed to just about anything-“

“Like what else?”

“Like getting a dog,” Ron suggested, and Hermione didn’t have to look at him to know his mouth had stretched into a grin.

“A dog?” She felt his body shaking with silent laughter. “And how do you think that would make Crookshanks feel?”

A chuckle burst out of him. “We can discuss it with him.”

Silly as they were, they were still plans, musings over the future, and it filled her with the sort of giddiness she only ever associated with him. This was real. It was going to happen. She just needed the next few months at Hogwarts to slip by as quickly and uneventfully as possible, and then she could finally press play on the new life that had been paused for months.

With an exasperated smile still on her lips, Hermione inched up Ron’s body and tucked her face into the curve of his neck. If he had a few minutes her before he needed to leave for the shop, she was going to take advantage. The blankets were the perfect temperature, as they always tended to be when one had to vacate them, and Ron’s thumb had submerged itself into her mess of curls, stroking gently against her scalp, and she thought, if she acknowledged every second as it passed, that this might linger on for just a little bit longer.

And then he sighed, a low, reluctant acceptance of reality.

“I should shower,” he said, though he made no effort to move.

“Now?”

“Well - yeah. S’pose I’d better.” He pressed a kiss to her temple and gently rolled her onto her back, away from him, as he extricated himself from the bed.

As he stood, he raised an arm to rake his fingers absently through his hair, and Hermione sat up to better admire him, the long lines of his form, the navy blue boxers sitting low on his hips.

“Maybe I’ll join you,” she said, only half-joking, but Ron turned to face her, eyes bright.

“Do you want to?”

And she did, but… “Well - the problem is, it’s Harry’s bathroom too.”

“Right.” He bent at the waist and caught her lips briefly with his. “So then maybe we should get our own flat.”

When Ron returned from his solo shower, it took nearly all of Hermione’s willpower to keep herself from tugging the towel away from his waist and bringing him back into bed, but she resisted; it wouldn’t do for him to be late to work. Instead, they headed to the kitchen for breakfast with Harry and Ginny, the latter of whom had evidently found a way around the charms protecting her own bedroom. Hermione couldn’t stop her mind from racing. If they lived here, they’d essentially also be living with Harry and Ginny… but then, practically speaking, perhaps it made sense to live here first, just for a while, to save some money before they became responsible for a lease. Though, Ron had been working for a few months, and she had savings she could easily convert from pounds into Galleons…

But the details almost didn’t matter, not right now, anyway. Subtly, she shifted in her seat to angle toward him, lightly bumping her foot into his under the table. As he turned his head, she pressed her bare toes into his calf.

 _What?_ he mouthed to her, but she simply plastered an expression of innocence on her face and picked up her cup of tea.

They always used to have silent conversations, usually when they didn’t want Harry to know what they were really thinking, but this felt like they had a delicious little secret between them, like something new had blossomed overnight and they were the only ones who knew.

He had a mouthful of toast and jam when she slid her foot down to the top of his, and his jaw stopped moving.

 _What are you doing?_ he asked soundlessly, trying his best to be exasperated and plainly failing.

 _Nothing_ , she replied, raising her brows in feigned confusion.

He gulped heavily, but his voice was steady as he leaned over to whisper in her ear. “We’ll pick this back up tonight.”

His breath on the shell of her ear sent a chill down her entire spine. Was it even possible to want someone this much, to constantly need him, to love him so much that he blurred out everything around them? Was it rational?

Did she even care if it wasn’t?

“I’ve got to go,” said Ron to the group, popping the last bit of his toast into his mouth. “But feel free to stop by and visit, we’ve got a special on Wildfire Whizzbangs all weekend.”

“I should get home too,” Hermione decided, “I’ll walk out with you.”

The April sun shone brightly into their eyes as they stepped onto the porch of Number Twelve, still shielded from Muggle eyes by the charms on the house.

“M’not gonna be able to concentrate today,” he confessed, pulling her tightly against him. “You’ve got me thinking too many things.”

“Like what?”

“Like everything.” He pressed a kiss under her ear and hugged her closer, a hand on the small of her back. “I’ll see you tonight, right?”

“As if you even have to ask.”

•••

Hermione wasn’t quite sure what had prompted her mother’s newfound penchant for marathon shopping trips, but she found herself, a couple of hours after kissing Ron goodbye, in the front seat of the family car. Her parents had always been generous people, and they could generally afford anything they might want, but they didn’t typically hemorrhage money on Hermione’s wardrobe the way her mother seemed compelled to do. Although, given that most of what she owned had tumbled around in a beaded bag or a Hogwarts trunk for the better part of two years, maybe a few new things weren’t entirely unwarranted.

And the more she thought on it, the more she knew that it really wasn’t about new shoes or purses at all. As they wound through the busy streets of London, the words her mother had spoken over the Christmas holiday floated to the front of her mind: _“We just want to be as much a part of it as we can.”_

They missed her, that much had been made clear, and she really didn’t know what to expect when she told them she would be leaving them once again. Last summer, it would have been a non-starter: the house had been so full of tense silences and excessive politeness and had she even given an indication of wanting to move out, the damage might have been irreparable. But now…

Now, there was really only one way to find out.

“So,” Hermione began as they braked for a red light. “Last night-“

“Oh, right, what did you and Ron do?”

“We just went out with Harry and Ginny to the Leaky Cauldron - but then…” She paused, contemplating how to frame the news, and decided, in a very Gryffindor fashion, that she’d rather beg forgiveness than permission. “I’m going to move out once I’m done at Hogwarts. And move in with Ron.”

The light turned green, but this took a few seconds to process in Mary Granger’s mind.

”You’re going to move out?” she asked, finally shifting into gear when the car behind them honked impatiently.

“I’ll have a full-time job as soon as I’m finished with school, and Ron and I have been together almost a year - and I’ve actually already lived with him before.”

“Yes, I remember - well, no,” Mary corrected herself, slowing the car to take a turn, “I don’t, but I recall you telling me that.”

“So it won’t be that much of a change,” Hermione said, opting to gloss over the mention of their stint in Australia.

“But it _is_ a change - oh, hold on.” She pulled the car out of traffic and put it into park, flicking on the hazard lights. “Sweetheart, listen. I don’t want to tell you what to do, and you know we’ve always wanted you to be independent. But…” She hesitated as though bracing herself. “Are you sure that you’re sure about this?”

“Yes,” said Hermione quietly. “I’m positive.”

“Because you can stay with us as long as you like.”

“I know that - you’re not meant to take it personally, Mum.”

“Of course I’m not, but nineteen is still so young. Most girls your age are just starting at uni-“ But then she stopped herself and turned to look at Hermione, really look at her. “But I suppose I have always known that you would never be like most girls.”

“Was it the magic that tipped you off?” Hermione said before she could stop herself, realizing as the words escaped her lips that she sounded just like Ron.

“Might’ve been.” Mary moved to put the car into drive, then froze. “Oh, now I don’t know why we’re going to Debenham’s, you don’t need clothes-“ _Understatement of the century_ , Hermione thought- “you’ll need things for your flat! Dishes, and, and pots and pans-“

“We don’t know where we’re going to live yet-“

“Oh, but even so.” Glancing over her shoulder to check traffic, she really did put the car into gear this time and waited for a break in the steady stream of vehicles. “You’ll still need some things, come on, let’s go.”

Hermione watched her mother as she steered them through a roundabout, simultaneously baffled and pleased. She had half-expected a fight, to have to present a series of arguments defending why she was ready for this and why the world would keep turning even if she lived with her boyfriend before they were married. She hadn’t expected near-immediate acceptance, let alone enthusiasm, but perhaps she hadn’t given her parents enough credit. She wasn’t doing this to them, after all. She was doing it for herself.

They were in the housewares section of Marks & Spencer, comparing fluffiness levels of the towels, when a thought occurred to Hermione. “I’ll need to tell Dad,” she mused, running her hand over a thick bath towel and thinking of Ron, earlier that morning, clad only in one that was likely older than he was.

“I’ll talk to him,” said Mary as she gathered a stack of bath towels into her arms.

Hermione almost protested on both counts - she could brave the discussion with her father, and she rather liked Ron in a threadbare towel that left little to the imagination - but her mum was just as stubborn as she was.

“He’ll be fine,” Mary added. “Not that our objections would stop you anyway, but he’ll understand. I just think I can break the news a bit more gently than you did.”

Hermione acquiesced: if it would keep any feelings of ill-will out of the development, then she was all in favor.

They had moved on to bath mats and shower curtains when Mary spoke again.

“I’m glad that it’s Ron,” she remarked, inspecting the rubber bottom of a mat. “I used to worry about you a bit, you know.”

Hermione’s head snapped over to face her. “Did you?”

“Not that I thought you’d go off the rails or anything - actually, I was worried about the opposite. You’ve always been a bit - erm-“

“You can say it-“

“Tightly wound.” Mary paused as Hermione nodded her agreement. “You spent that whole summer before you started school reading all your textbooks, and I didn’t want you thinking that was the only important thing. You have no idea how happy we were when you started writing home about your two new best friends, these boys, it was such a relief.”

“For me too,” Hermione admitted. She didn’t much like thinking about her first two months at Hogwarts, which had been marked by intense loneliness and misguided attempts to fit in.

“Of course now I know better, I know who you are. But I worried you wouldn’t end up with someone who really excites you, and balances you out - that you’d find someone safe, and unremarkable, and probably a bit bookish and boring, because you felt like you were expected to. But Ron… he unwinds you. He’s so good for you.”

“Yes.” Hermione lifted her eyes from a garish yellow shower curtain to meet her mum’s gaze. “He is.”

•••

Lips on her neck, warm, wet, familiar, and a large, calloused hand on her waist; Hermione opened her eyes to register the strip of pale moonlight illuminating Ron’s shaggy hair as his lips brushed up her jaw and then connected onto hers. She let her eyes drift shut again, humming her approval as he focused on the other side of her neck.

“What time is it?” she asked, her voice a quiet rasp.

“Dunno,” he muttered back as his hand shifted under her shirt. “Late.” He kissed the column of her throat. “Just woke up and thought… you’re leaving soon…”

With every touch of his lips on her skin, her mind ground slowly to alertness, her heart speeding up, blood pumping more and more urgently through her veins. As his mouth marked a path down her neck and onto her collarbone, his hands hitched her shirt (which was actually his) further up her torso until it had gathered under her arms. Suddenly the duvet was oppressively hot: Hermione pushed it away and a blast of cool air hit her bare chest just as Ron placed his lips onto her nipple. Everything around them was still, quiet, just shallow breaths and rustling sheets reverberating through the room, as though they might have been the only two people who existed.

Hermione arched her back, bringing herself closer, letting her hands fall haphazardly onto his shoulders. Warmth curled low in her stomach, settling firmly between her legs as his tongue grazed the underside of her breast. Cool air mingled with his hot breath on her skin, prompting gooseflesh to pop up over her body. Her fingers traced the coarse, winding grooves of his scars as he planted a kiss in the valley between her breasts and then traveled down, determined, a clear destination in mind. As his shoulders slipped out of her reach, her fingers fisted tightly around his hair, holding him close, his nose dragging below her navel.

On instinct, her hips popped up from the mattress so he could pull her knickers down her legs, and a second later, he pressed two gentle fingers against her center. In another instant, his tongue was on her and she forgot how to breathe, or think, or do anything but grind her hips into his hand and try not to rip his hair out by the roots. Heat rushed over her entire body and her legs began to quake; a low groan crept from the back of Ron’s throat and the sound seemed to vibrate into her; her hands dropped to the mattress, clenching the sheets as she tightened around his fingers.

She felt his tongue trace the crease of her thigh as her breathing slowed, and she let herself stroke his hair away from his eyes. Though her limbs were like jelly, she managed to worm out of her shirt and as she tossed it to the floor, Ron looked up and their eyes locked. There was no need for words: he crawled up her body, dropping errant kisses along the way, and her hands found the waistband of his pants, pushing them down his hips. He settled on top of her, his hips cradled between her thighs, as she lifted her head from the pillow to catch his mouth, not minding that she could taste herself along with him. As they kissed, his tongue rolling over hers, she felt his tip slide between her folds, and all it took was a tilt of her hips for him to sink inside. At the contact, at being filled, complemented by him, she whined into his mouth, at once satisfied and desperate for more.  
“What’s wrong?” Ron asked in a breath.

“Nothing,” she panted back, “it’s perfect, don’t stop.”

He pushed into her again and found her lips with his, and it was almost impossible to tear herself away from him, all she wanted was to be closer, even with their skin nearly melting together as it was. His arms wound their way under her back, supporting her and holding her against him like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting her go, and she clung back just as tightly. Her time left in London could be counted now in mere hours, during most of which Ron would be at Auror training, and if this was all they had left, she wasn’t going to waste it.

With a shudder and a groan, Ron finished inside her, both their bodies going slack as he dropped his forehead on hers. Their lips touched, and then he reluctantly slid out of her, using an arm to draw the discarded duvet over their bodies.

“I love you,” he mumbled, bestowing kisses onto her neck and shoulders. “And ‘m sorry.”

Hermione froze. “Sorry? Why?”

“Well, you were only here for a few days, and I was working so much, I feel like I was hardly around.” He brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes. “Usually it’s good, y’know, a way to get through the day faster, but this went by way too fast.”

“I know,” Hermione agreed. “But you shouldn’t be sorry.” She struggled into a sitting position and grabbed the first wand she saw so she could cast a cleansing charm on herself, then laid back down with her head on Ron’s chest. “You’re doing what you’re meant to be doing.”

“With what, exactly? The Aurors? Or the shop?”

“Both,” she said simply, allowing her hand to run slowly down the subtle ridges of his stomach. “And maybe one day you’ll have to choose, when one stands out more to you, but until then, you don’t have to.”

“Yeah, I reckon - Hermione,” he suddenly gasped as her fingers raked through the ginger hair below his navel. “Careful what you’re starting down there.”

“Oh!” Quickly she relocated her hand to his shoulder. “Sorry. And anyway, it’ll be different when I’m back for good. Better. A lot better,” she concluded thoughtfully.

“And it’s just a few more months.”

“Right.”

And he was right. Just three months, just twelve weeks, ninety days, and she could handle that. She just had to take her NEWTs - more than that, she had to ace them, or the entire year was a waste - and she had to see through her commitment as Head Girl.

But that was just it. Hogwarts had been home for so long, and in some ways, it would always carry that comfort, that sense of belonging, but her life had simply evolved past it now. Maybe she hadn’t been ready, last August, or even in December, to let it go. The place had changed her life, had shaped it, and for all it had taken away, it had given her so many things she held dear. Maybe she had needed to see it returned to some sort of status quo, like a confirmation that the wizarding world had settled, but now she knew she had a future beyond it.

“Hermione,” he said knowingly, tightening his arm around her shoulder.

“What?”

“I can feel you thinking,” he said fondly. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” she responded, knowing she wasn’t exactly convincing. “It’s just that - it feels like something to get through, Hogwarts, like I have to endure it now. And I want to go back,” she said, though her voice rang out hollow, “because otherwise I’ll have wasted so much time, and I know once it’s done I’ll be glad I went. But - I mean, you were right, before. Sometimes it feels like going backwards.”

Ron fell silent, rubbing the pads of his fingers over her upper arm. Outside, an ambulance sped past, its sirens intrusive upon their seclusion.

“I know,” he said finally. “But sometimes I think, if I hadn’t had to go back, even just for that one term - if I’d just started the Auror program like we wanted to - I don’t think I’d have started working at the shop along with it, so - yeah, I dunno where I’m going with that,” he half-chuckled. “Reckon I’m just saying that I get it.”

And that, Hermione knew as she stretched up to kiss him goodnight, was all she really needed anyway.

•••

It was more effort than it was worth to link the Grangers’ fireplace to the Floo Network, and so just as Hermione had arrived for the Easter hols, so she would depart - through the fireplace at the Burrow. Ron had been scheduled to work at the shop following Auror training that evening, as was typical of most evenings, and so Hermione had kissed him goodbye in the gray morning light and promised to write to him as soon as she was back.

Which was fine, actually. She knew she would miss him, but she had also finally fully absorbed that this wasn’t forever. She had something tangible now in their future, and it would be there for her on the nights when she was surrounded by textbooks and parchment and wishing she was surrounded by him instead. And if she missed out on a few hours with him because he was working toward something, she understood that well enough.

And if it meant that she had to sit on the sofa at the Burrow, Crookshanks in her lap, and wait as Harry and Ginny finished sharing a rather physical goodbye, she supposed she could bear that as well.

It would be nice, though, she thought as she threaded her fingers into the thick fur on the cat’s belly, if they displayed some sense of urgency. McGonagall’s own fireplace back at Hogwarts was only open for a very limited window, and Molly would certainly feel compelled to fuss over them before they left.

“About five more minutes,” Hermione said to Crookshanks, “and then we’ll have to get in the Floo, all right?”

Harry and Ginny, glued together at the mouth, did not seem to pick up this subtle hint. And really, Hermione didn’t begrudge them their happiness, but she was quite sure that she and Ron never reached these levels of public affection. She was on the point of doing what Harry had been doing to her for a year - shamelessly interrupting - but Molly beat her to the punch, brushing her hands on her apron as she burst into the sitting room. If she noticed Harry’s sheepish expression, she didn’t let on.

“Now, you behave yourself,” said Molly to her only daughter, adjusting the collar of her robes, “and you make sure you study, because nothing about this Quidditch business is guaranteed - Hermione, dear, you’ll make sure she studies, won’t you?”

“Of course I will,” said Hermione, smiling at the exasperation on Ginny’s face and coaxing Crookshanks into his carrier. She stood, setting the carrier on the ground (Crookshanks yowled his disapproval), and accepted a warm hug from Molly. “Thank you so much for having me-“

“Oh, it’s nothing, dear, you know you’re welcome here anytime.” She patted Hermione’s cheek fondly and released her. “And Harry, stay for supper, won’t you? I was going to send you and Ron some things, but as you’re here-“

“Yeah, brilliant,” Harry agreed at once, likely pleased to have evaded another meal of beans of toast. “Thank you.”

All heads turned as the kitchen door rattled on its hinges and rapid footsteps pounded the tile floor; Harry’s hand was halfway to his wand when Ron burst into the room.

“You’re still here!” he said happily, smiling wide at Hermione. “I’ve only got a couple minutes, but I wanted to see you off.”

As Molly very tactfully retreated to the kitchen to allow them privacy, Hermione hugged Ron quickly around the neck and leaned up for a kiss, laughing against his lips a bit when he couldn’t seem to pull himself away.

From inside his carrier, Crookshanks let out a pitiful mew.

“I think that’s our cue,” commented Ginny, and she gave Harry one last hug before hauling her trunk into the fireplace and spinning away in a cloud of green flames.

Ron dipped his head and kissed Hermione again, slowly this time, his hands wrapping around hers.

“I love you.” Squeezing his hands in her own, she pulled him closer and met his lips with hers. “You didn’t have to come all the way here-“

“I love you too, and anyway, that’s what Apparition’s for,” he shrugged. “And the shop’s slow tonight, two minutes won’t hurt.”

Hermione became acutely aware of just how tightly they had locked onto each other’s hands, each reluctant to let go, and she surely had at least another thirty seconds before McGonagall closed off her fireplace…

“I’m glad you did,” she admitted. “But I’ll see you soon, right?”

“Yeah, when’s that last Quidditch match?”

“Fifteenth of May.”

“Okay, I’ll be there.” She must have looked askance, because he hastened on. “I mean it, no trickery this time, I’ll definitely be there.”

“Good. And in the meantime…” She planted one last kiss on his lips and released his hands, instead picking up her trunk in one and Crookshanks in the other. “Start looking for a flat.”

* * *

 

_Thanks for reading! Please review :)_


	18. The Haze

The castle was always a bit eerie this late at night, when the corridors were quiet and the classrooms dark and still. Only the groaning of the moving staircases punctured the silence, along with Hermione’s footsteps against the stone floors. She had always liked doing her prefect rounds on her own (with the exception, in years past, of when she was paired up with Ron), but tonight, when her mind wouldn’t stop racing, she wouldn’t have minded company. 

She had tried not to notice when April had slid seamlessly into May, tried to bury herself under Arithmancy charts and employment applications and the classifieds section of the Daily Prophet, but it hadn’t really worked. Something about the change had triggered an onslaught of memories, playing like a montage in her mind. Even as she had set herself up a station in the library, where she remained until Madame Pince had kicked her out, she had found it impossible to block out the recollection of what it felt like to transform into Bellatrix Lestrange, or the burning heat of the cursed gold in the vault, or her all-consuming terror - which had not waned - as they escaped on a dragon. 

And if these were the memories that assaulted her today, she really wasn’t sure how she would handle tomorrow.

So she’d told her prefects that they could have the night off, and that she would do the nightly rounds herself. It felt good to be busy, usually, and she knew Ron employed the exact same method to pass the time these days, but it was sadly ineffective tonight. There wasn’t a soul at Hogwarts to commiserate with: Ginny and the rest of the students had gone through a different - though no less harrowing - sort of hell with the Carrows. The truth was that she needed Ron, and Ron only. She hadn’t left his side once during the battle, they’d seen all the same things, shared the same unthinkable horror and - as had become an overarching theme of the past several months - it simply wasn’t fair that they had to be apart now.

Stepping onto a staircase, she made her way dutifully up to the seventh floor. She had walked through every foot of the castle tonight, been down to the dungeons and up to the Astronomy Tower, and aside from the pair of sixth-year Hufflepuffs she had found snogging in a broom closet (whom she hadn’t even had the heart to punish), her night had been wholly uneventful. It was time, now, to retire to her room, to lay in the silence with Ginny and Demelza and try not to think about what tomorrow really meant.

But she thought, first, that she should make a cursory visit to the Room of Requirement. Its allure had always been strongest to those most likely to be out after curfew anyway, and anyone senseless enough not to ask the room to render itself undetected probably deserved to be caught. She walked down the corridor, approaching the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy and feeling like the castle grew darker, and her steps slower, with every second. 

She had only been there once over the past year, and it wasn’t a memory she enjoyed visiting; her stomach sank at the thought of Ron and the real reason he had avoided the Room of Requirement… and that she hadn’t seen it, hadn’t understood until he spelled it out for her. She had been so caught up in her own priorities, her quest to ace her exams, that she hadn’t stopped to consider someone else’s viewpoint might not match her own. When it came to Ron, that was the last thing she wanted. 

Her feet continued down the corridor, almost of their own volition, to the corner of the wall that had been blasted apart last year. To the untrained eye, it was unmarred, the same blocks of stone that had been placed there by the four founders, but Hermione knew better. She could see the seams in the bricks, the cracks and fissures that remained even after they had been sealed back together. And part of her had to admit… it felt like it had happened yesterday. She could still hear the ringing in her ears from the explosion, Percy’s pleading words as he tried futilely to rouse his brother. The images were so crisp and stark in her mind that it was as if she were watching a film.

She pressed her fingers to a gap in the bricks where they hadn’t aligned quite right. The repair work still seemed raw and fresh, like the hole it had patched up could reopen at any moment. 

And that decided it, really. Turning on her heel, she strode purposefully in the direction of the Headmaster’s office.

•••

_ Focus on the good.  _ Ron had been chanting the words to himself all weekend, but it didn’t seem to be doing him much good. As much as he knew the facts on the surface - that today marked the day Voldemort had died, and Harry had lived, and Hermione had kissed him for the first time - he couldn’t control the barrage of images that he usually tucked away in the darkest recesses of his mind. All weekend he thought of that seventh-floor corridor, the explosions, Percy kneeling beside Fred’s lifeless body, and he wondered, as he laid in bed on the morning of the second of May, if it would always feel like this. If, when these anniversaries arose, he would always feel this raw, that he and George would still close the shop as an act of mourning, that he would feel like it was happening all over again. 

Rolling onto his stomach, he let his arm stretch across Hermione’s cold pillow. He could recite the same trite platitudes to himself: that Fred would not want them to live like this; that he still had so many wonderful things in his life; that the war was over once and for all. None of it made it sting any less. None of it made him feel like what had happened would ever really be okay. 

And besides, as much as Fred had lived his life to the fullest, he had also had a flair for the dramatic. He might have appreciated a bit of mourning from his brothers.

It was this thought that gave Ron the fortitude to pull himself out of bed. The Sunday Prophet would surely have been delivered by now, and he could peruse the classifieds section for a flat for himself and Hermione. Over the past few weeks, he had gotten the sense that Hermione wanted them to have their own space, and he quite agreed. Aside from the obvious - being able to do things like shag on the sofa or shower together without the fear of Harry interrupting - he wanted something that would be just theirs, a fresh start for the new phase of their lives. 

And to that end, he decided to actually make his bed for once. He thought he might get into the habit for when he and Hermione started living together. Normally he just left it - he was only going to mess up the blankets again that night, particularly if Hermione was there - but there was a certain bachelor-esque immaturity to an unmade bed that he was hoping to leave in the past. As much as he wanted it, desperately, and as right as it felt, he knew moving in with her was probably most ‘responsible adult’ move that he had made in his life, and he didn’t take it lightly. It meant everything to take the next step with her, and he didn’t want to be a disheveled slob who never made his bed when he did.

Down in the kitchen, he lit a few lanterns with his wand and was just fiddling with the kettle on the range when the Prophet delivery owl tumbled in through the fireplace as usual. Ron paid him from a jar on the mantle that he and Harry kept stocked with spare change and sent him back on his way, tucking the paper under his arm as he returned to the stove.

Outside, the sun had just barely risen. Ron had intended having a bit of a lie-in, but his brain seemed incapable of shutting itself off; he had acclimated himself to being busy and now couldn’t switch back. What he wanted - just one of the many things on that never-ending list - was just one morning to sleep as late as he pleased, with Hermione in the bed beside him, and those drowsy morning kisses where neither knew what they were really doing. He’d never really had that; his life lately involved a lot of alarm clocks and very little Hermione, and he just wanted a break where it was the other way around.

But for now, a boiling-hot mug of tea, a plate of toast overloaded with butter and jam, and the flat listings in the Daily Prophet would have to do. He settled into a chair at the kitchen table and was just burning his tongue on a sip of tea as he opened up the paper. Immediately, he knew it was a bad idea. This particular Sunday edition was so thick, he learned quickly, because an entire section had been dedicated to the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. There were photos of the fallen - he didn’t feel like checking if there was one of Fred - and updates on those who had been instrumental in the victory. And he was sure there would be a long article about Harry, and probably some mention of him and Hermione too, but he didn’t bother to look. The irony of it wasn’t lost on him: he spent the first eighteen years of his life longing for attention, for glory and recognition of his own, and now that he had it, it didn’t mean to him what he thought it would. Mostly, he craved a quiet, normal life.

Near in the back of the paper, following a detailed timeline of Harry’s life and notable achievements, were the classifieds. He had only been looking a month, but nothing - and he knew how crazy this sentiment was, coming from someone who had grown up wearing third-hand clothing and shoes held together by magic - nothing seemed good enough. The problem was, they weren’t exactly raking in the Galleons yet, and flats in a safe neighborhood with a fireplace and a library for Hermione weren’t exactly ten a Knut.

Turning a page, Ron found himself greeted with a life-size photo of Severus Snape with the caption:  _ Unlikely Hero?  _ and felt his stomach flip. The last thing he wanted, on this of all mornings, was to consider the true content of Snape’s character. 

Maybe he could accomplish a lie-in after all, through sheer force of will. It was better, anyway, than sitting here with this newspaper that, though he’d turned the page to the classified listings, still seemed to be staring him in the face, taunting him.

He wiggled the apartment listings out from under the fat stack of paper and returned to his bedroom.  _ So much for making the bed,  _ he thought morosely as he slid beneath the blankets. The sheets of newspaper fell haphazardly onto the pillow beside him as he burrowed into the comforter and determinedly closed his eyes. The more he slept, anyway, the sooner the day would be over...

In the fog of half-sleep, he felt himself drifting, limbs growing heavy, mind emptying, but he thought he felt a warm, achingly familiar arm cross over his waist. He allowed his mind wander further into this fantasy; dreams of her always helped, as much as they never measured up to the real thing. Maybe he could let himself pretend that he really did feel her lips pressing into his shoulder through his shirt, that it really was her breath on his neck, her voice whispering his name…

Wait. Maybe it really  _ was.  _ Wrenching his eyes open, he turned his head and blinked through the last vestiges of sleep to catch sight of a lock of bushy brown hair, then big, bright eyes and perfect pink lips-

“Wh-“ His brain seemed to have ceased all function. “What are you - are you really-“

“Shh.” She kissed the edge of his jaw. “Go back to sleep.”

“I’m awake now,” he said, scrambling about under the sheets to sit up against the headboard. “But you - how-“

“I spoke to McGonagall,” said Hermione simply as she shifted around to sit cross-legged next to him. “I have to Floo back to her office by five tonight, Ginny’s here too. I just didn’t want you to be alone. Not that you’d be  _ alone _ , of course,” she hastened to add, “you’ve got your family, and Harry, but - okay, it’s selfish, really, because I wanted to see you-“

“No,” he said tenderly. “No, you’re amazing.”

He was immensely prone to sentimental, romantic thoughts when it came to her, the sort of things that would have had a thirteen-year-old Ron melting in mortification. Now, though, he was nineteen, arse-over-tea-kettle in love with her, and genuinely would not have had it any other way. As he leaned toward her, bringing their lips together, the thought flitted through his mind that he had been kissing her for a whole year now. A whole year of unabashed devotion, of being her boyfriend (though the word was at once too inadequate and too juvenile to properly convey the depths of their connection), of not only loving her but acting on it, expressing it, and her reciprocating in spades. 

A year. They could measure in years now, not just months, and it felt settled, grounded. Not too grounded, of course - he felt goosebumps spring over his flesh as her fingertips trailed lightly up his forearm. He entertained the idea that he might truly be dreaming, that his imagination was running wild, but quickly banished it. There was was no mistaking her fingers snaking in between his, the taste of her, the warmth of her breath. She broke apart from him, a slight smile playing at her swollen lips. No, the fuzziness of sleep had dissipated, leaving them in the stark morning light, and she was still here, her palm still pressing softly into his, and his mind traveled back, back to something he had heard years ago that had always stuck with him.

It hadn’t been long after Ron’s return home from his fifth year at Hogwarts, with brain scars freshly seared into his forearms, that he had overheard Fred and George talking in their bedroom at the Burrow. They had been packing up their things in preparation to relocate to Diagon Alley, and Ron, desperate to escape the stifling heat of his attic bedroom, had been on his way down to the kitchen for an ice-cold pumpkin juice when he heard their voices.

“What has it even been, a year, if that?” Fred had been saying just as Ron stepped onto the landing outside their room. “And he’s already marrying her?”

Ron had quickly gleaned that they were discussing the newly-betrothed Bill and Fleur, and stopped in his tracks to listen.

“Yeah, and have you  _ seen _ her?” George had replied. “I’d lock that down too.”

“But that’s my point, it’s probably still the honeymoon phase, where you think the other person’s flawless-“

“And I ask you again, haven’t you seen her?”

“And again, that’s my point.” A solid thud had sounded then from behind the door. “There’s like this - this haze over a new relationship, right, where you think it’ll always be this perfect. But that starts to go away after about a year, and you start to notice that the other person chews really loud or, y’know, takes the Daily Prophet seriously or something. I just don’t think the haze has lifted yet.” Another thud. “Suppose it’s his problem though, innit?”

“Not much of a problem when the woman in question is part veela - no, leave the Boxing Telescopes here,” Fred had interjected suddenly. “They’re not ready yet.”

“Still?”

“Not if the Bruise Removal Paste isn’t-“

“But it is-“

And as a squabble had commenced about the finer points of injury-related humor, Ron had proceeded down the stairs, his mind racing. He had already admitted to himself that his feelings for Hermione had gone a bit beyond friendship. Back then, he had caught himself watching her at every turn, eager for her admiration, and - if he had really concentrated - he could still feel her kissing his cheek the way she had done back in the fall. But still, he hadn’t resisted wondering if it would all someday come to pass. He hadn’t even been dating her (at sixteen, he had never imagined that it would truly come to fruition), but he worried, still, that he might have simply been viewing her through the haze Fred had discussed. That one day it would fade, that his feelings might dull at the edges.

“Ron?” The sound of Hermione’s voice snapped him quickly back to the present. “Did you even hear what I said?”

“Huh?” 

“I asked if you had any plans for today,” she said, an amused smile tugging on the corners of her mouth. 

“Sorry,” he said, sheepish. “No, I’m meant to go over to the Burrow a little later to see Mum and Dad, but nothing right now. Just you,” he added cheekily, lifting up their joined hands to kiss her knuckles.

“Do you…” She bit her lower lip. “Do you want me to go with you?”

“Oh.” Ron honestly hadn’t considered this option, but then, she’d only been here for a total of five minutes. “You’d want to?”

“If you want me there.”

“It won’t be much fun,” he said. “Mostly Mum trying to pretend everything’s fine and Percy trying not to be awkward - and failing at it, I’m sure-“

“That’s okay.” Hermione’s eyes never left Ron’s as she spoke. “I want to be supportive. And… and I hope you know…” She seemed to steady herself then: outpourings of emotion were not always her strong suit. “I’m with you for everything, okay? Not just the good things.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, kissing the back of her hand again. “Yeah, I know.”

She practically crawled into his lap then, a hand on either of side of his face as she tipped forward to kiss him, and he met her lips with enthusiasm, a hand on her back to bring her close. 

He hated to disparage his brother’s memory on this of all days, but he thought Fred might have been wrong all those years ago. Or maybe he had been right, but it only applied to regular couples, ones like Percy and Audrey, who had met as adults. Ron and Hermione were about as far from normal as a couple could be. They already knew everything there was to know about each other, they had seen each other at their absolute worst, they had fought in an actual war, all before they were ever together in the official sense of the term. Maybe for them, there had never been a haze to begin with, and he had always loved her - not an idealized, rose-tinted version of her, but the real Hermione. The one sitting on his lap right now, kissing him as though it kept the blood pumping through her veins.

“M’so glad you’re here,” he mumbled against her lips.

“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

•••

Ron and Harry had long since screamed themselves hoarse. The roaring charm on Luna’s lion headdress had worn off hours ago, and now it croaked feebly, sounding more like a sickly housecat than anything else. The fourteen athletes on the pitch were coated in mud; even Ginny’s long, red ponytail was nearly indiscernible through the deluge, and the sharp blasts of Madame Hooch’s whistle could barely be heard over the downpour and the screams of the crowd. Hermione was soaked through to the skin, freezing cold, but she could not recall ever feeling such anxiety over a Quidditch match in her entire life. Not only was there a recruiter from the Holyhead Harpies in the stands, watching Ginny’s every move, but Hufflepuff was making an impressive showing, and Gryffindor needed to win by two-hundred-eighty points in order to secure the Quidditch cup. 

And though Hermione had been accused of not understanding Quidditch for her entire magical life - and most of the time, she would agree - she understood one thing: they  _ needed  _ to win. 

A collective groan rose up from their half of the stadium as Gryffindor’s Keeper dove to block a goal and nearly toppled off his broom.

“I’m not saying I was any good at this,” Ron said, turning to face Hermione, “but I know I was better than that.”

“You won the Quidditch cup twice,” Hermione reminded him, her eyes watching Ginny fly over to the Keeper. “You  _ are  _ good at this.”

His lips felt like ice as he pressed them to her cheek, his arm draping over her shoulders. She tried to bury herself into his side, seeking the warmth of his body, but his clothes were also dripping wet. Over on the scoreboard, she watched as ten points were added to Hufflepuff’s score, narrowing the margin to ninety points.

But then Ginny scored, and then Demelza, twice, and when Hufflepuff’s Keeper had to dive to dodge a Bludger, Ginny scored again. Hermione had truly never seen Harry so worked up in the eight years she had known him; she thought he and Ron might vibrate themselves right out of the stands when Jack Sloper faked right and threw the Quaffle into the leftmost hoop. 

“I see it,” Harry muttered, his voice muffled by the pouring rain. “The Snitch.”

He nodded his head toward the bottom of the Gryffindor goal posts, where, sure enough, something golden sparkled in the grass. 

“So go get it,” Ron laughed.

“I wish I could - oh, fuck, no,” he moaned as Hufflepuff’s Seeker flew toward that end of the pitch. “No, no, no, no…”

Had Hermione blinked, she might have missed it: as Hufflepuff’s Seeker dove in clear pursuit of the Snitch, Gryffindor’s swooped down from above, snatching the tiny golden sphere out of the grass. As the stadium erupted, he tumbled onto the muddy pitch, flat on his back, the Snitch held out in one fist.

The next few minutes were a blur. Hermione found herself dragged onto the pitch by Ron and Harry as the Gryffindor team celebrated in a massive group hug. Ginny had hardly dismounted her broom before she collapsed against Harry, hugging him so fervently that he stumbled backwards. A jagged bolt of lightning lit up the sky, followed instantly by rumbling thunder, and soon students were being herded into the castle by Professor McGonagall (who was doing a poor job containing her glee over the victory). As the enormous double-doors of the Great Hall drew near, Ron and Harry glanced at each other, then the castle, then at each other again.

“Oh, come  _ on _ ,” said Ginny, grabbing each of them by the wrist and dragging them along behind her. “You’re both coming to the party.”

Tracking mud and rainwater behind them, the foursome slogged up to the seventh floor. At some point on one of the moving staircases, Ginny had released Ron’s arm, and Hermione took the opportunity to hang back with him, behind the other two.

“Are you okay with this?” asked Hermione in a low voice. “I know you don’t love being here-“

“Yes,” Ron nodded, his hair still plastered to his forehead. “If it means a little more time with you, then yes.”

It wasn’t until they had reached the Fat Lady’s portrait that anyone realized they could do drying charms on themselves. Laughing, they cast spells at each other’s clothing, and by the time they stepped into the common room, Hermione’s clothes were as clean and warm as if they had just come out of the laundry. 

They were the first ones inside, and Hermione watched as Ron gazed around the room with a sort of nostalgic affection. As complicated a relationship with Hogwarts as he had, it was impossible not to love the Gryffindor common room.

“Come with me for a sec,” said Ron, fingers lightly grasping Hermione’s as he headed toward the boys’ staircase. “I want to, erm, check something.”

“Sure you do,” said Hermione skeptically, even as she allowed herself to be led up the steps. 

As they made their way up, the voices in the common room - growing more plentiful by the moment - began to fade, and by the time they reached the Eighth Years’ room, all had fallen silent. 

“So,” Ron began as he shut the door behind them, “at some point during sixth year, Seamus and Dean hid about an entire case of Firewhisky in here - it’s under the floorboards somewhere-“

“That’s what you wanted to check on? Alcohol?”

Ron stepped close to her, their bodies breaths away from touching. “You gonna put me in detention?”

“I could,” replied Hermione, coy as she set her hands on his upper arms and stood on tiptoe to kiss him.

“Mmm…” One large hand came up to cup her face as he leaned into the kiss, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone. “No, I actually…” Kiss. “Wanted to…” Another kiss, so laced with need that Hermione fisted his sleeves in her hands and took a step toward his old bed. It seemed, after all, a waste not to utilize this empty room to its full potential. 

“To what?” she asked, breathless, angling her face up to his to catch his lips again. 

“Never mind,” he muttered, mouth crashing against hers as he walked her to the bed and pushed open the curtains. “I’ll tell you later.”

He had piqued her curiosity, to be sure - and she wasn’t typically one to just let things slide - but his lips, now on her neck, were a remarkably efficient distraction, and she tumbled back onto the bed, pulling him on top of her. They would have to be quick, she thought, reaching a hand under his shirt to rest her palm on the taut muscles of his back. The party downstairs was surely in full swing by now, and their absence would not go unnoticed, but judging by the hardness digging into her thigh, Ron felt the same urgency. As his lips locked onto hers again, tongue slipping against hers, his hand roamed up her side, covering her breast through her jumper. 

“Ron,” she gasped around a kiss, lifting her hips up from the mattress to push them against his. As he groaned into her mouth, an image flashed briefly through her mind of the two of them, far less clothed than they were now, bodies moving together, and she reached for the button on his trousers, fingers fumbling in their haste. “Maybe we should-“

A creaking of hinges and a sharp burst of laughter tore through the room. 

“Seriously?” Dean and Seamus stood in the doorway, the former indignant, the latter bent double with laughter. “Again?!”

Ron, features contorted into a pained grimace, slid off of Hermione but remained facedown on the bed.

“If I had a Sickle for every time this happened to me-“

“You’d have two Sickles,” snapped Ron, his voice muffled through his pillow. “Two. That’s not that many.”

“We just came looking for the Firewhisky,” Seamus added through his chuckles, “we’ll leave you to it in a second.”

“No, no, go ahead,” replied Ron, “who am I to stop the party?”

As Dean knelt down by the floorboards next to his own bed and rapped his knuckles against them, seemingly checking that they were hollow, Hermione sat up and tried to avoid Seamus’ knowing smirk.

“You’ll let us know when you’re done in here, won’t you?” said Seamus, who no doubt was delighting in Hermione’s mortified blush. “Can’t take longer than a couple minutes-“

“Shut  _ up _ ,” Ron grumbled just as the clinking of glass sounded through the room.

“Found ‘em,” declared Dean proudly, rising to his feet with a bottle in each hand. “All right, let’s get out of here.”

“Let us know when you’re done!” repeated Seamus, just before being dragged out of the room by the hand.

As the door clicked shut, Ron shifted onto his back and looked up at Hermione with an apologetic wince.

“I’m sorry.” He reached out a hand and gave her knee a gentle squeeze. “I wasn’t thinking about locking the door-“

“It’s all right.”

“But actually,” Ron continued as he sat up, “I sort of - well - I brought something for you.”

As Hermione watched, intrigued, he fished a folded square of newspaper from his back pocket. Handing it to her, he pulled her hand into his lap and intertwined their fingers. “Here.”    
  
In the dim lantern light of the dormitory, it took Hermione’s eyes a moment to adjust to the impossibly tiny text before her. Even then it seemed to materialize in fragments, as though her mind could not possibly process it at all at once. Words jumped out at her:  _ Charing Cross flat for lease; fully-functional Floo; cats allowed; 100 Galleons monthly; available 1st August _ .    
  
“I know it’s two bedrooms,” Ron was saying as the words slowly seeped into Hermione’s brain, “but I reckon we can make one into a library - otherwise, I don’t know where we’ll keep all your books-“   
  
“A library?” Hermione repeated, looking away from the parchment and back up at him.    
  
“Yeah, if you want. I haven’t gone to look at it yet, so it could be rubbish, but I wanted to show you first.”   
  
“No, you should,” she replied at once. “Go to look at it, I mean, to see if we should take it.”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“Yeah,” she said simply. “I trust you.”    
  
It felt odd to relinquish control, even to Ron, but they were a team, and they had been for years. And part of that, she knew, was placing her faith in him.    
  
“Okay,” he said as he leaned in to lightly touch his lips to hers, and then released a sharp breath. “Merlin, I really can’t wait. It’ll be so good to not have to think about it, y’know? To just - just know you’ll be there.”   
  
Hermione nodded her agreement, her eyes shifting down to their intertwined hands, where the pad of Ron’s thumb was currently running over her knuckles. Most of the time, she thought they’d never fully recover from the war and its aftermath, from the terror and the sadness, and now the requisite distance between them… but she thought, now, that maybe that was okay. Surely they couldn’t live out their lives in a state of arrested grief, but it had taught them things they wouldn’t have learned any other way. And she knew that any morning that she woke up with Ron next to her, alive and breathing, was something to cherish.   
  
“It’ll be better than good,” she said softly.   


Ron leaned in to connect their lips again, his palm cradling the back of her neck. The newspaper clipping fluttered to the ground as Ron broke the kiss just long enough to close the curtains around them, surrounding them in scarlet, as a steady tattoo of rain pounded on the windows…

Twenty minutes later saw them nestled tightly together, legs intertwined, Ron’s lips marking a lazy trail down the side of Hermione’s neck. She breathed a sigh of contented fatigue and let her eyes fall shut as he ran a hand over her bare stomach, across her hip, and then up her waist to inch her closer to him.

“Love you,” he muttered, laying a light kiss on her lips. 

“Love you too.” Hermione brushed a lock of his hair back into place, savoring the feel of the silky strands between her fingers. “I don’t want to move.”

“Hmm.” He dropped a kiss onto her shoulder. “Let’s not, then.”

Her imagination raced with a thousand scenarios of how they could spend the rest of his limited time here, most of them involving him remaining in this state of undress, but it wasn’t worth entertaining any of them. Reality loomed on the other side of the curtains: the stack of books on Hermione’s nightstand, the joke shop in Diagon Alley, the Auror training handbook that Ron had already read cover to cover. Even as he kissed her again, and she sank into it, she knew it couldn’t linger on the way she wished it could.

“No, we’ve got to get up.” Hermione pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I’m sure they’re all expecting us downstairs.”

“Yeah, I suppose we owe Dean a bit, don’t we.”

One last kiss, and then Ron prised himself away, eyes scanning the floor for his pants.

Hermione was just pulling her hair up into a knot at the back of her head when a thought occurred to her, surfacing from the back of her mind where she had buried it months ago. 

“Ron?”

He smiled at her from across the bed and adjusted the sleeve of his shirt. “Yeah?”

“When did you - come over here for a second.” Rather than walk around the bed, he knelt on it and crawled over to meet her. “When did you do this?” 

Ron peered down at the letters etched into the headboard -  _ RW + HG _ \- and his face flushed. “Oh. That.”

“When did you do that?” 

Sitting down sideways on the bed, he stretched his legs out before him so that his calves hung over the edge.

“I don’t want to say.”

“Oh, come on,” she wheedled him, coming to stand between his legs with a hand on each thigh. “I thought it was really sweet, I just want to know what, you know, compelled you to do it. Was it before Christmas?”

“Christmas?” He looked dumbfounded at the thought. “No.”

“Then when?” 

“You’re going to think I’m mental-“

“I already do,” she teased, leaning in to peck him on the lips. “So you’ve got nothing to lose, really.”

He gave a small tilt of his head as though admitting defeat and rested his hands gently on her hips. “It was after Dumbledore’s funeral.”

“It - what?”

“Yeah, I just - I don’t know how to explain, really, it just seemed like something I needed to do. I knew we were never coming back here, and Harry was breaking up with Ginny, and it just seemed like the world had gone to shit, y’know?”

“Right, well… it had.”

“Right.” His voice went low, soft, his words formed as carefully as she had ever heard it. “And the whole time at the funeral, when you were crying… I’d seen you cry before, but it never tore me up as bad as it did that day.” He wasn’t looking at her now, instead watching his thumbs trace circles on her waist. “And I think I’d known it all year, that I didn’t just fancy you or think you were fit, I loved you, but it kinda just hit me all at once that day. And I came up here to get my trunk, and… I dunno. I thought maybe if I put it into writing somehow it would make it real?” His gaze traveled back up to meet her eyes. “I told you, it’s mental-“

“No,” she interrupted, “It’s wonderful, it’s really wonderful.”

“Yeah? ‘Cause it kind of reminds me of when Ginny was ten and she used to write  _ Ginevra Potter  _ on every spare bit of parchment in the house.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped. “She did not.”

“Oh, yeah, she did. I think my mum saved some of them, too - but anyway,” he shrugged, “you were right, we should get back downstairs before they come looking for us.”

With a small nod, she went in for one last kiss, this one slow and warm. She wouldn’t see him again until late June, after she took her NEWTs, and the weeks standing between them and what they wanted seemed almost insurmountable.

And yet… she had never felt more confident in them and in their future. Piece by piece, they had built a life together over the past several months, and now they were so close to actually being able to live it.

Ron stood and placed a casual kiss on her forehead, then looped an arm around her shoulders as they walked toward the door.

“Oh! Wait!” Hermione scurried back over to his bed, plucking the newspaper clipping from the floor. “We’re going to need this.”

Ron tucked it safely back into his pocket as they headed back to the party.

 

_Thanks for reading! Please review :)_


	19. Teach Me How to Say Goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s the last chapter, guys! This one is a bit more mellow and introspective, as things are settling down for our favorite characters, but I do so hope to enjoy it! The epilogue will be along very, VERY soon, at which time I’m sure I’ll pour out all my feelings in the author’s note. In the meantime, on with it!
> 
> P.S. Re: that bit about Ron carving the initials into his bedpost, I actually wrote a little fic about the day he did that. It’s on my tumblr (remedial-potions) titled “one last golden day of peace”, in case you’d like to check it out! Search the tag “eit universe” and it should come up.
> 
> P.P.S. The title of this chapter is indeed borrowed from the song “One Last Time” from Hamilton :)

June was the month during which all of the post Hermione received became exceedingly important. Gone were the days when she merely looked forward to a letter from Ron, or perhaps a small care package from her parents. Now that she had sent out her CV and applications to every job opening at Ministry of Magic, she felt on tenterhooks every time the mail owls swooped into the Great Hall. 

“I don’t know why you’re worried,” said Ginny airily to Hermione over toast one morning. “You’ll have your pick of jobs once you’ve gotten perfect scores on your NEWTs.”

Coming from her, however, the words were rather unconvincing: she spent most of her breakfasts watching intently for her own owl from the British and Irish Quidditch League, and had been known to shove aside correspondence from her own parents in disappointment. 

“You don’t know that,” Hermione replied as a barn owl circled low over the Gryffindor table. “I’m an entire year behind everyone else.”

“Extenuating circumstances, remember?” 

“I suppose.” She intended to explain that those circumstances were exactly the issue - she didn’t want special treatment just because she had gone on the run with Harry Potter for a year and she suspected it might actually work against her - but then the barn owl above their heads dropped a thick scroll of parchment directly into Hermione’s cup of tea, and she lost her focus a bit.

After drying it off with a tap of her wand, Hermione unfurled the scroll and felt her stomach flip at the sight of Ron’s untidy scrawl.

_ Hey Hermione, _

_ Here’s the lease for the flat. The landlord said we’ve got until the end of the month to have it signed which is good because I know you’ll want to read it about five times through before you sign it. And then it’s ours! For a year! With the option to go month-to-month after that! (See, I read it too!)  _

_ And this is also your daily reminder to take breaks from your exam revision to eat and sleep. Don’t worry yourself over them, you’re brilliant and you’re going to do great on them.  _

_ Love you! Can’t wait to see you! _

_ Ron  _

With a faint smile, Hermione flipped to the last page of the document, where, indeed, Ron had signed his own name on the dotted line.  There was something a bit daunting about signing a year-long lease when neither of them was technically employed yet, and she wasn’t sure where she would come up with the five-Galleon fee associated with keeping Crookshanks in the flat, not to mention that she still had to find time to read the thing between classes and exam revision. 

But it would be fine, she told herself, tucking the envelope into her rucksack. She  _ would  _ find a job - even if she hadn’t received any interview offers yet - and Ron would have his Auror assignment by the end of the summer. All they had to do was make it through this month and they’d be fine.

It sounded a lot easier said than done.

“I’m going to class early,” Hermione decided aloud, taking one last sip of her tea. “There’s a book I was hoping Professor Slughorn would loan to me - it’s on medicinal potions, I’m sure they’ll be on the exam. If you’d like to borrow it when I’m done-“ Hermione looked up to see Ginny, ashen-faced, staring at a sheet of parchment in her hands. “Ginny?” When she only blinked in response, Hermione tried again. “Is everything alright?”

“ _ Dear Miss Weasley, _ ” Ginny began to read aloud in a soft, quaking voice. “ _ On behalf of the British and Irish Quidditch League, the Holyhead Harpies would like to an extend a formal invitation for you to join the team in training for the upcoming season-“  _ She broke off then, a wild, delirious look in her eyes.

“Ginny!” Hermione exclaimed, “that’s so fantastic-“

“Keep your voice down,” Ginny hissed back. “I don’t want anyone else to know in case it doesn’t work out - but I’m going to go write to Harry really fast. I’ll see you in class.”

Hermione gawked after her, a stunned half-smile frozen on her features. Pieces were falling into place, little by little, for everyone around her, and she just had to believe that they would fall into place for her too. The month was still young, after all.

And in the meantime, she had a Potions lesson to attend.

•••

Hermione was more than accustomed to distractions whilst trying to revise - she had spent six and a half years in school with Ron and Harry, after all - but Ginny was in a league all her own. Where Harry had often pestered her for guidance, and Ron had stolen her attention merely by existing, Ginny had turned NEWT revision into a social event. Suddenly, the Gryffindor common room was filled with students of all ages (and Houses - Luna Lovegood became a regular fixture) quizzing each other, copying notes, and tossing textbooks back and forth. And Hermione, despite spending the better part of her magical education flanked by her two best friends, was really the sort of person who studied best alone.

The library, naturally, was her best source of solace. During her third year, she had discovered a small nook, hidden behind a bookcase, and it was there that she found herself more and more as her time at Hogwarts raced to a close. The more she revised, the more she realized how much she truly had to accomplish, and she often found herself rising at dawn just to squeeze in a few hours before breakfast. 

_ It isn’t forever _ , she reminded herself on the days when her eyes crossed from fatigue and her fingers ached from scrawling out notes. It would be worth it when she aced her exams, and she could sleep all she wanted once she was back in London with Ron. In a matter of weeks, he would be waiting for her at King’s Cross station, ready to welcome her home, and all of this - the exhaustion, the loneliness, the overwhelming sense of being caught between two lives - would be a thing of the past.

With the examiners due to arrive at Hogwarts in exactly eight days, Hermione tucked herself away into her favorite nook one evening after class, accompanied only by a rucksack stuffed with textbooks. As she went to retrieve a heavy, yellowing tome on Human Transfiguration from within its depths, another scroll of parchment tumbled out, and Hermione felt her stomach flip. 

She had embarked upon reading the lease so many times, usually right before bed, and every time it resulted in her waking up with a pile of parchment on her face. There was a voice in the back of her head (and it sounded just like Ron) that kept saying that the lease was probably just fine, that she didn’t need to read every single word, that her Arithmancy exam was far more pressing, and late at night, she couldn’t help but listen.

But Ron was waiting for its return, and she knew how impatient he could be, so she picked up the lease, smoothed it out on the table before her, and began to read.  _ This agreement,  _ it began,  _ made this fifth day of June, 1999... _

“Hey.” 

Hermione lifted her gaze to see Ginny, bag slung over one shoulder and a tray of food balanced on the other hand, edging her way around the corner of the bookcase.

“Hi,” replied Hermione as Ginny dropped into the seat across from her and set the tray of sandwiches and fruit down on the small wooden table. “Have you come to study?”

“I’m here to make sure you eat something.” A beat, and then, “Ron writes to me too.”

“He doesn’t have to do that-“

“He does it because he loves you,” said Ginny, “and he doesn’t want you to waste away.” She helped herself to a chicken sandwich and peered curiously at the document on the table. “What is that?”

“My and Ron’s lease for the flat.”

“You found a place?”

“Yes - well, I think so - I do want to check and make sure we aren’t signing our lives away - and what if the parchment’s jinxed somehow?” she suddenly wondered aloud with a jolt of horror. “Ron’s already signed it-“

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Ginny said with a touch of exasperation. She nudged the tray of sandwiches toward Hermione. “Now eat something.”

As Ginny had just forcibly reminded her of Mrs. Weasley, Hermione felt she had no choice but to select a sandwich of her own and take a compulsory bite.

“And besides,” Ginny continued on, “Ron’s an Auror - or, almost one, anyway - and he grew up with the twins, don’t you think he’d have already checked for a jinx?”

“Oh, you’re right,” said Hermione, tossing the sandwich back down. “I should just trust him - I  _ do _ trust him - and I know he wouldn’t have signed this if he didn’t think it was the best thing for us, these exams just have me a bit - well-“

“Mental?” Ginny supplied around a bite of her own sandwich.

“Apparently.”

“I don’t know why you’re so stressed out-“

“Oh, easy for you to say, isn’t it?” Hermione snapped, eyes quickly narrowing in contempt. “The Holyhead Harpies don’t exactly care what kind of marks you get in Charms.”

Ginny opened her mouth as if to retort, then slowly closed it again. “Fine,” she said, clearly making a concerted effort to keep her voice even. “I was going to be nice to you and explain why you have nothing to worry about, but maybe I’ll just take my sandwiches and go-“

“I didn’t mean it like that.” With her nerves already on edge, the last thing Hermione had the mental capacity for was a petty spat. “I just can’t make any mistakes, all right?”

“Not one?”

“No.” 

Ginny took another bite of her sandwich and chewed pensively. “Is there any point in telling you that’s unreasonable?”

“No.”

Silence fell between them as Hermione reverted her attention back to the lease in front of her.  _ Tenant agrees to pay Landlord the sum of one hundred Galleons per month, due and payable… _

“You really should eat something, though-“

“I will when I’m done.”

“Can’t you read and eat at the same time?” asked Ginny, a rather Fred-and-George-esque grin twitching at the corners of her mouth.

“Ginny,  _ honestly _ -“

“Okay, fine. I’ll leave you be. Just promise me that you’ll take a break for a few minutes, because there’s still life after exams are over.”

Standing up from her seat, Ginny took another enormous bite of her sandwich and dusted her fingers off on her robe. 

“That’s exactly the thing,” Hermione found herself saying just as Ginny was turning on her heel to leave. “School’s almost over, but once it’s done… I want it to be perfect,” she admitted. “I want the flat with Ron to be perfect, I want to get the job that I want - and maybe it’s naive, to think that it’ll work out that way, but it’s what I want. I’m tired of feeling like… like I’m constantly on my way to something, I just want to get there. I want it to be settled, and, and calm. And if I get the right grades, and I make sure this lease is right, I’ll be that much closer to it.”

Hermione knew that, were Ginny a less kind person, she would have, and could have, identified one by one all of the flaws in Hermione’s logic, all of the things she couldn’t control. She wouldn’t know, really, until she got there, if the flat had noisy neighbors or a leaky faucet or ambulances driving by all night. And her desired job at the Ministry could easily leave her feeling unfulfilled within a matter of months. So much was out of her grasp, but the things that were not, she felt she had to clench them tightly in her fists lest they, too, somehow went awry.

“Well, it’s just a couple more weeks,” said Ginny gently, pushing her ponytail over her shoulder. “You’re almost there.”

•••

It took two eagle owls to carry the parcel into the Great Hall, and still their flight path grew evermore erratic under the weight of the swaying, paper-covered box. When they finally released it, it dropped with a dramatic thud onto an empty stretch of the Gryffindor table, the force of the impact toppling Hermione’s glass of pumpkin juice.

“Is that for you?” asked Ginny, intrigued as she absently siphoned up the juice with her wand.

“Actually…” There was no mistaking it:  _ Ginny Weasley and Hermione Granger, Gryffindor Tower, Hogwarts School  _ was penned onto the front of the box in Harry’s handwriting. “It’s for both of us.”

Without further ado, they ripped through the packing paper to find a cardboard box absolutely stuffed to the gills with everything their revision-addled brains could desire: two large tins of Mrs. Weasley’s homemade fudge; brand new Self-Inking Quills; different varieties of tea; the newest editions of  _ Quidditch Quarterly _ and  _ Transfiguration Today _ , the former for Ginny and the latter for Hermione; a pair of crisp, fresh notebooks; Fever Fudge ( _ in case you need to get out of an exam _ , read the label handwritten by Ron); tiny flasks of Pain-Relief Potion; an unmarked bottle filled with amber liquid. At the bottom of the box lay two envelopes, one bearing Hermione’s name, the other Ginny’s. 

Ron’s note inside was short and sweet, but even as she read his words, drinking in the strokes of ink on the parchment, Hermione felt as though he could well be seated right beside her. She could almost hear in her mind the Ron of exam seasons past, the one who used to retrieve her from the library at closing time and fix her cups of tea with too much sugar. For a fleeting instance, she was closer to him than she had been in weeks, and the obstacles between them suddenly felt trivial at best. She had seven exams to take - just seven - and a journey home on the train to endure, and her career as a student of Hogwarts would officially come to a close. Everything she wanted was so, so brilliantly close.

Beside her, Ginny had already cracked open a tin of fudge, an expression of pure bliss on her face as she chewed. “You have to try this,” she said, thrusting the tin under Hermione’s face. “Mum’s best yet.”

“It’s eight in the morning.”

“Yeah, and?” Ginny licked the remnants of chocolate from her fingertips. “The sugar’ll help us study.”

Hermione’s retort died in her throat as another, smaller owl soared gracefully over the table and landed gently on the bench beside her, a thick envelope clenched in its beak. All discussion of morning’s sweets forgotten, Hermione accepted the envelope, turning it over to see a red wax seal bearing an ornate  _ M _ on the back.

“Oh, no,” she lamented at once as the owl took off again. “Oh, no, they’ve rejected me already-“

“You’re barking,” said Ginny. “Just open it.”

“No, I can’t-“

“Then I’ll do it-“

“You’re getting chocolate on it!” Hermione yelped as Ginny snatched the letter from her hands. 

“Shouldn’t matter if it’s just a rejection letter,” said Ginny with a smug grin as she neatly tore open the envelope and extracted the parchment within. Hermione watched, her heart pounding in her throat. “There’s like, six different letters in here - they’re all from different departments-“

“Oh, for God’s sake-“ 

Already out of patience, Hermione grabbed the letters back. Her eyes darted so frantically over the printed words that she retained none of it in her first attempt to read, and had to take a breath to steady herself. Her incessant brain had already formulated hundreds of reasons that she would be unhirable, the most prominent being that she had once assisted in a bank robbery, and she squinted at the page as though that might somehow shield herself from it.

“Here, let me help you,” said Ginny, her tone now softened as she pulled a few sheets from Hermione’s trembling hands. “This one’s from the Department of Magical Transportation… they want to interview you! Apparition License Coordinator, that sounds - erm - fun-“

Hermione’s shoulders sagged in relief. A job pushing paper was better than no job at all.

“You applied for the Department of Mysteries?” Ginny continued, faintly awestruck at this revelation. “Oh, but it says here the only job opening is as an assistant to the actual Unspeakables.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, and it says you can join the Unspeakables training program if you’d like - oh, but it’s six months in an ‘undisclosed location’ - that sounds awful if I’m honest-“

“What else is there?”

“Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures…” Ginny’s eyebrows shot up toward her hairline. “They want to interview you for their House Elf Liaison position-“

“You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not, see?” Ginny held the parchment out in front of Hermione’s face. “That’s a good thing, right?”

“Yes, it’s - it’s-“ 

It was, Hermione felt in the darkest, most insecure recesses of her mind, much more than she could have hoped for. Given that she had taken a year off from school to go on the run and do things like break into a bank vault, she had expected that her first year or so of employment would consist of a lot of paperwork and proving her own worth. 

Her next seven exams couldn’t pass quickly enough.

“I have to write them back right away! Give me that.”

Retrieving a Self-Inking quill from the box, Hermione set instantly to work.

•••

Upon completing her final exam - the practical portion of Herbology, of all things - Hermione had expected to feel a sense of relief, or great accomplishment, or perhaps just a wave of exhaustion. She did not, by any stretch of her imagination, expect to find herself choking back tears. 

If anything, she should have been happy, overjoyed, delirious, even (and she was the latter, admittedly, due to a lack of sleep and an excess of caffeine more than anything else). She had been desperate for this moment since she returned to Hogwarts in January, eager to just hurry up and be done with it already, to finally set her goals in motion. But as she strode from the greenhouses to the castle in the bold summer sunlight, the nostalgia rushed over her with such force that her knees nearly buckled. Every inch of the castle grounds was saturated with memories of the past eight years, some wonderful, some gut-wrenching, all formative, and she didn’t even know when or if she would ever return.

It was a strange thing to reconcile, the bittersweetness of her final days at the castle, and those days were filled with goodbyes in every possible form. She made one last visit to Hagrid in his hut, recalling the hatching of Norbert the dragon, Ron belching up slugs, all the tears she had cried into an enormous mug of tea during the great Crookshanks-Scabbers fight of their third year. And the Great Hall: how many times had she dined there with her friends, studied notes over hurried meals, lamented over the Daily Prophet, read letters and opened presents. Every classroom overflowed with memories, every corridor reminded her of a history she would always carry with her. She could barely even look at the common room as she levitated her trunk down the stairs lest she begin bawling at the thought that she'd never sit in front of that particular fireplace again. Everything she did was for the last time: her last visit to the library, her last trip to the owlery, her last patrol as Head Girl. She traversed the castle alone that night, memorizing the corridors, welcoming the deluge of memories, even the bad ones, because she was lucky to have them at all.

There was no graduation ceremony at Hogwarts; rather, each seventh-year student was presented with a small scroll certifying the completion of his or her education on the morning of their departure. Hermione was grateful for the lack of fanfare; rather, she appreciated that her final breakfast in the Great Hall took place just like any other, sitting across from Ginny at the Gryffindor table while last-minute post owls circled overhead.

When they stepped outside, the day was cool and grey, a slight fog hanging over the Black Lake. Instinctively, Hermione began leading the way toward the thestral-drawn carriages, only to find herself intercepted by one Rubeus Hagrid.

“Seventh years,” he called, waving an enormous hand at the crowd of students. “Seventh years, over ‘ere, please.”

Hermione and Ginny exchanged glances, but then followed him to the edge of the lake, where several small boats bobbed in the murky water.

“All righ’, now, ‘Ermione,” said Hagrid. “As yer Head Girl, yeh’ve got firs’ pick of the boats.”

Hermione stared up at him, perplexed. “We’re taking the boats?”

“Well, sure,” he grinned behind his scraggly beard, “yeh’ve got ter leave the same way yeh came, don' yeh?”

“Right,” she nodded, surprised she hadn't thought of it herself. Beckoning to Ginny to join her, Hermione selected a little wooden vessel and made herself as comfortable as possible inside; it was so much smaller than it had been when she was eleven. 

Away they sailed across the lake, the castle shrinking as they drifted toward Hogsmeade station.

“Who did you ride with the first time?” Hermione asked Ginny as something splashed below them in the water, likely the giant squid.

“Colin Creevey,” said Ginny with a hint of wistful sadness. “And I spent the whole time bragging to him that Harry Potter had stayed at my house over the summer.”

“Of course you did,” Hermione smiled. If ever there was an example of how things had changed, it was Ginny and Harry's relationship.

“Let me guess, you rode with Ron?”

“And Harry and Neville,” Hermione confirmed. And even then, the gangly boy with dirt on her nose had taken hold in her brain, even if it was simply because everything he did drove her crazy. “And this is strange, they’ll never get to do this.”

“Yeah, but Ron’s legs would have to hang over the side,” Ginny laughed. “He’d need his own boat.”

“He’d still share with me, though.”

“Knowing him, he would.”

So they’d missed a term at Hogwarts together. And she would be riding the Hogwarts Express for one last time without him. They still had so much more beyond that. And it wasn’t that she couldn’t do things on her own, but she wanted to walk through life with him by her side… and it was only a matter of hours now until she officially could.

Given that she was still, officially, Head Girl until the train pulled to a stop at King’s Cross, Hermione did one last patrol of the train corridors, peeking fondly in at the students chattering excitedly about the summer hols. The trip at once was painfully long and startlingly brief; one second the landscape was dark and wild, the train cutting through mountains and curving around lakes, and it seemed she would never be out of Scotland, and the next, the countryside had turned to suburbia, with tidy rows of well-kept houses; and then London, busy and bustling, the sunlight glinting off the skyscrapers. 

As the Hogwarts Express pulled into the station, Hermione spotted two figures standing at the far end of the platform, one tall and lanky, one a bit shorter. Immediately, Ginny began to gather up her things, and the second the train rolled to a stop, she was dragging her trunk loudly down the aisle, dodging around younger students in her haste. Hermione felt compelled to do the same, but the one last shred of responsibility inside her meant she made a final trip through the compartments, ensuring that every student had safely disembarked before doing so herself. 

And she really didn’t care anymore if she made a spectacle in the middle of the train station, if the gaze of surrounding parents and students fell onto her as she rushed up to Ron, setting down Crookshanks in his basket and letting her trunk drop to the ground with a heavy thud; she flung her arms around his neck with unparalleled fervor, the solid warmth of his muscles beneath his clothes like a tonic for her frayed nerves.

“Hi,” he half-laughed into her neck, hands on her back. “God, I thought you’d never get off that train.”

“So did I.” 

It was here, finally, and she could hardly believe it. Some days, it had seemed like a life away from Ron, one filled with stolen weekends and lengthy letters, was just her new reality and she would never really be out of it, but she was. The life that had once seemed a distant fantasy was starting today - it was starting right now. 

Hermione slackened her grip just enough to press her lips to his, letting one hand slip around to the side of his face. The feel of his skin, the prickle of his unshaven jaw beneath her fingertips, the taste of his lips, it simultaneously thrilled and comforted her, and she let herself sink into it, pulling back only to take a breath.

“Hey, Hermione?” Ron’s forehead dropped against hers, the corner of his mouth tilting up.

“Hmm?” 

Welcome home.”


	20. Epilogue: The End of an Era

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you so much, everyone. More notes at the end.

“But mate,” slurred a red-faced Ron, “it’s the end of an era. The  _ end  _ of an  _ era _ , mate.”

“An era?” From his seat on the drawing room floor at Grimmauld Place, Harry placed an Exploding Snap card at the top of an exceedingly precarious house of cards. “How long’s it been, eight years? Does that really count as an era?”

“That’s a long time! Hermione, tell him,” Ron implored her. “Tell him eight years is a long time.” 

With a laugh, Hermione settled herself further into the corner of the sofa she shared with Ron and surveyed the scene before her. It had begun innocently enough, with a birthday dinner for Harry at the Weasleys, but things had begun to deteriorate almost immediately upon their return to Grimmauld Place. Harry had located a bottle of Muggle scotch in the cupboard and insisted that they all drink to Ginny’s new role as reserve Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies. Almost immediately thereafter, Ron, experiencing a fit of nostalgia, had begun toasting to his and Harry’s last evening as flatmates. 

Since her return from Hogwarts, Hermione had been unofficially living at Grimmauld Place with Ron, but she refused to move too many of her things there, wanting her first true home with Ron to be their own flat together. Now, with all but his bed packed into tidy boxes, they were fully prepared to relocate the next morning. 

“An era is defined as a significant period of time,” Hermione said. “Eight years can be an era if you want it to be.”

“And she got ten Outstandings on her NEWTs,” said Ron proudly, “so she’d know.”

Hermione caught Ginny suppressing a smirk across the room and opted not to remind Ron that she’d only taken seven exams. Instead, she merely extended her legs out so that the soles of her feet rested against Ron’s thigh. His hand fell down, almost on instinct, to give her ankle a soft little squeeze.

“So what you’re saying is, you’re gonna miss me,” said Harry with a chuckle.

“Nah,” said Ron. “But you-“ He pointed an emphatic finger in Harry’s direction- “are gonna miss me.” 

Harry gave a joking roll of his eyes. “Right.”

Sliding off of the armchair she’d been occupying, Ginny walked on her knees to the house of cards in front of Harry. “How mad would you be if I knocked this over?”

“Go ahead, I don’t care,” Ron told her. “Know what we should actually do, is play chess.”

“Yes!” Harry declared. “I would love to play drunk chess with you.”

“Alright, I’ll go get my set.” 

Ron hoisted himself up from the couch, but almost immediately bent down again to lay a warm, wet kiss on Hermione’s lips before sauntering away to the staircase.

“He’s your problem now,” said Harry to Hermione, extending his legs out in front of him and leaning back on his palms.

“Oh, just admit it,” Hermione fired back. “You’re going to miss living with him.”

“Maybe a bit,” Harry conceded as Ginny inched ever closer to the house of cards. “He’s right about it being the end of an era, you know, it’s just too easy to take the piss when he’s like this.”

“And he’s going to miss you too.”

“Yeah, right,” scoffed Harry as Ginny crawled over his outstretched legs. “You know all he’s talked about since you two decided to move in together is - is you two living together, really.”

Before Hermione could reply, there erupted a thick plume of dark smoke from the coffee table where the house of cards had stood just seconds ago. 

“I got bored,” explained Ginny simply as the fog cleared to reveal her grinning face. “You lot were being way too serious.”

As the ash on the table slowly reformed back into cards, Ron appeared in the doorway.

“I forgot my chess set’s packed up,” he said, “but I found this old Gobstones set in one of the closets - Ginny, what’d you do?”

She simply laughed and reached for her bottle of butterbeer as Ron tossed the sack of marbles onto the table and fell onto the sofa beside Hermione. Half-perplexed, half-disgusted, Harry picked up the bag and held it at eye-level.

“I think the spell’s gone off,” he said, crinkling his nose. “It’s sort of… dripping.”

“Oh,” Ron laughed, “yeah. Well, I dunno what you expect from me, all my stuff’s in boxes. I’m moving in, what, twelve hours?” He made a big show of checking his watch. “No, ten, actually. Ten hours, Hermione.”

A loose, broad smile slid over his face as he turned to look at Hermione and lifted up his arm so she could nestle herself against his side. Even through his shirt, his skin was flushed and warm from the alcohol in his veins, and his fingertips marked burning paths along the bare skin on her upper arm. 

“It is getting late,” Hermione observed quietly, “and we’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.”

“What are you suggesting?” asked Ron with a wry grin. “You want to go to sleep?”

“I want to go to bed,” she clarified before inching closer to speak quietly in his ear. “But we don’t necessarily have to sleep.”

Ron’s eyes went wide, and then he jumped up from the sofa, proffering a hand to Hermione. When she accepted it, he pulled her up and then grasped her by the waist, tossing her easily over his shoulder. 

“G’night!” he called cheerfully to Harry and Ginny, his hands secure on Hermione’s legs to keep her in place.

“Ron!” Hermione hissed as he stepped onto the stairs. “Ron, put me down! This is dangerous!”

“Nah, we’ll be fine,” he said. “I’m an Auror.”

“You’re also  _ drunk _ -“ She pinched him on the backside, but that only made him laugh. “What if you slip and we break our necks-“

And then the world flipped over again and suddenly she stood, on her own two feet, on the landing outside of Ron’s bedroom. He smoothed down her tousled hair with both hands and then cupped her face, kissing her soundly on the mouth.

“You’re right though, I’m going to take a Sobering Potion. I’ll be in there in a second.” 

Hermione hardly had time to change into her pajamas - which consisted, per usual, of an old shirt of Ron’s and a pair of knickers - before Ron returned and locked the door behind him. Unbuttoning his trousers, he set them atop one of many cardboard boxes and navigated through the gaps to the bed. His eyes, indeed, looked brighter and clearer than they had minutes ago, and when he knelt on the bed beside her and leaned in for a kiss, his tongue was minty from his toothpaste.

“So,” said Ron, seating himself in front of Hermione on the bed and running his palms up her naked thighs, “it’s happening tomorrow. No going back after that, you know.”

“Good,” said Hermione, scooting toward him so that her legs moved to either side of his hips. “I don’t want to go back.”

“Me either.” Ron’s hands were on her hips now, drawing her very nearly onto his lap. “Do you remember, last summer, I used to ask you to move in here just about every other day?”

“Yes…”

“I was in a bit of a rush, wasn’t I?” His fingers drew idle circles on her back. “But I reckon… we probably had to go through the last year, right? To be where we are now?”

“We did,” she agreed. “I didn’t always love it at the time, but it made us stronger in the end.”

Eyes heavy-lidded, Ron tilted forward and brushed his lips over Hermione’s once then, and they fell into a soft, lazy exchange, their movements slow and earnest. Hermione wound her arms around Ron’s neck and gripped the back of his shirt in her fists, bunching it up until she could peel the garment from his body. She took one look at him, with his hair mussed and his lips swollen, and felt a great rush of affection flood her entire being. Everything about this final night here in Grimmauld Place, on the precipice of their new life together, felt monumental, cementing itself in her memory forever. 

Ron’s lips migrated over her cheek, his teeth  scraping over the shell of her ear before he kissed down the side of her neck. As his hands slid under her shirt and up her waist, her breaths grew uneven, issuing in sharp spurts from her lips. Every point of contact between them set her skin ablaze; the pad of his thumb rolling over her nipple made her bite her lip and tighten her legs around his waist. Desire burned in every nerve in her body as he swept her shirt over her head and laid her back on the bed. Unconsciously, her legs drifted further apart as he kissed along the underside of her breast and stroked his tongue over her nipple. Her every sense was heightened at his touch: a tingle raced up her spine when his teeth grazed her sensitive skin. 

“Ron,” she sighed, hips wiggling just the slightest bit against his, “just kiss me.”

His lips were on hers in the next instant, the pressure of his torso pinning her to the mattress. Opening her mouth, she slipped her tongue over his, reveling in the moan she prompted from the back of his throat. Her leg curled over the small of his back, positioning his length against the smoldering warmth at her center. At the contact, she gasped and rubbed herself more firmly against him. Quickly they found a rhythm, their heated kisses alternating with the grinding of their hips, and Hermione felt a strong, impatient pulsing between her legs. 

Snaking a hand between them, she reached into the waistband of Ron’s pants and wrapped her hand around him. He groaned again into her mouth as she stroked up and down, velvet skin hot beneath her palm. 

“Lie on your back,” she instructed him, circling her thumb around his tip. 

“Huh?” His mouth was bestowing wet, sloppy kisses on her neck, one hand cupping her breast.

“Lie on your back.”

He did as told and she instantly crawled over him, tugging his pants down to his knees and moving to straddle one of his thighs. Leaning forward, she placed her tongue at the base of his shaft and licked slowly upward, causing him to shudder. She closed her lips around him, taking as much of him into her mouth as she could, as he sank a hand into her hair and fisted the other around the bedsheets. 

“Fuck,” he grumbled as she worked faster. “Fuck, that’s - fuck-“

She hummed against him and his breath fell ragged, emanating from deep within his chest. Incoherent mumblings fell from his lips as he drew closer and closer to losing control, his fingers tightening around her hair. 

“Er-Er-my-nee,” he groaned, trying not to buck his hips into her mouth, “you’ve gotta - stop - or I’ll-“

Pulling her lips from his length with a hollow pop, she kissed a path up his freckled torso, over his firm chest, to connect her mouth with his. The fabric of her knickers, now completely soaked, rubbed over his shaft, the friction teasing both of them. 

“You,” Ron panted as her taut nipples grazed his chest, “are driving me mental…”

“Am I?” She ground herself harder against him, unable to suppress her own whimper of pleasure.

Securing an arm tightly across her back, Ron flipped them over so Hermione was pinned beneath them, the bed bouncing from the impact. 

“These need to go,” he said, using a hand to guide her knickers down her legs. 

Kicking them away, Hermione bent her knees at his waist and gave a shuddering sigh as he sank inside. Once he had filled her completely he paused, his eyes locking on hers. 

Even after over a year together, Hermione still found herself struck by the magnitude of Ron’s feelings for her, at the way his expression was completely consumed by his love. She lifted her head from the pillow to catch his lips with hers as he moved slowly, deliberately inside her. Gradually, the pleasure between her legs mounted until she was sighing and moaning with every stroke of his hips, one hand in his hair and the other gripping the solid muscles of his back. A thin sheen of sweat popped up on her chest, their slick bodies writhing together. Her ragged breaths became desperate gasps, her toes curling, back arching, nails digging into scarred skin. 

When he collapsed onto her, satisfied and spent, she trailed her fingertips along the curve of his spine, relishing in the synchronized thudding of their hearts. 

“I love you,” muttered Ron, kissing her shoulder. “Love you so much.”

“Love you too.” She wiggled her hips so that he withdrew and turned onto his back beside her. “I’m going to go to the loo,” she said, placing a hand on his chest as she kissed him. “I’ll be right back.”

His bathrobe was one of only a few belongings that wasn’t packed away in a box, and Hermione pulled it on, cinching the belt tightly around her waist before stepping into the hall.

Upon her return, she found Ron propped up against the pillows, the duvet pooling around his waist.

“You know, tomorrow night, when we’re at our own flat,” he began with a grin, “you won’t need the robe, you can just walk around starkers. In fact, it’s encouraged.”

“Is it now?” Even as she spoke, she shed the robe and slipped into bed beside him, settling into the crook of his neck.

“Oh, yeah,” he agreed emphatically. “If you didn’t need clothes for work, I’d say you shouldn’t even bring any-“

Hermione swatted his chest. “Stop it.”

“Where d'you wanna shag first? In the new place,” he continued on with a smirk. “We’ve got to try out each room at least once.”

“Aren’t you a bit sad about moving out and leaving this place?”

“Nope.”

“Not at all?”

“It isn’t like we’ll never be back, Harry and Ginny still live here. But…” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “Living here was always sort of temporary, in a way. Just a stop on the way to something better.” Smoothing down a stray curl, he kissed her forehead. “Being with you… that’s permanent.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it’s done! I want sincerely thank everyone who has read, favorited, followed, reviewed - it has all warmed my cold black heart. Originally this story was supposed to essentially end after chapter twelve - everything that happens in chapters 13-19 was all crammed into one quick wrap-up chapter and a really short epilogue, but it started to seem like there were so many more things that needed to be explored and resolved (Hermione’s relationship with her parents, for one). And I’m so glad I expanded on it, I’m pretty pleased with how this has turned out, and I hope so so so much that you found the ending satisfying (Ron and Hermione sure did *wink wink*). Please let me know what you thought in the comments and thank you so much once again!


End file.
